Of Mirrors
by EmRose92
Summary: Kirk and Spock are watching McCoy, and they don't like what they see. He has terrible nightmares, doesn't eat, and no longer finds any pleasure in baiting Spock. In fact, he seems to be avoiding the Vulcan completely. A conclusion to "Mirror, Mirror".
1. Prologue

Well, this is one idea that wouldn't go away since the first time I watched the episode Mirror, Mirror (easily one of my favorites). McCoy's face turning from simple apprehension into obvious fear as Spock begins the mind-meld and then how he staggers into the transporter room afterward just captured my imagination. What exactly went on and how did it affect our poor doctor? So this was born, and it has gone further than I ever expected, but I'm not displeased with it. I hope I do this wonderful episode and our good doctor justice! Rating is just to be on the safe side - there won't be anything too terrible, just (hopefully) dramatic and angsty.

EmRose

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**Of Mirrors**

_**Prologue**_

_Smoke. Darkness. Colors, light, white noise, fading, softly, softly, silence…he opens his eyes, and he is in his Sickbay. His kingdom. The familiar, soft humming of instruments, the spotless walls and floors and faint, sterilized smell that signifies sanctuary. He smiles a little half-smile and turns a full circle to survey his domain. He pauses, and a frown replaces the smile. It is not his Sickbay. It looks the same, smells the same, but the feel is not the same. On closer examination, there are things out of place. There are instruments he does not recognize, and the place is unnaturally quiet. On any given day, Christine can usually be heard humming to herself, or the doors are hissing, signaling the arrival of visitors or patients, or several of the nurses are playing cards or poking their heads in to make reports or tell him the latest joke or bit of gossip. Here, he is on his own. _

_ He turns again, scanning, and suddenly he is no longer alone. There is a man stretched out on one bio-bed, eyes closed, as if sleeping, but his doctor's instincts kick in and he knows that the man is unconscious. As unsettled as he is, here in this familiar/unfamiliar place, he automatically moves towards the bio-bed, reaching for his hand-held scanner. As he gets closer, he recognizes the man as Spock. How unusual, and how disturbing. He steps a little quicker, anxious to see why on Vulcan Spock has allowed himself to be housed in Sickbay. As he bends over the unconscious form, there is an inexplicable thrill of fear. Something is not right. It takes him a moment, staring at the silent face, to figure out what, and when he does, his breath hitches tight in his chest and his heart thuds once, painfully, against his ribs. Spock has a goatee._

_Suddenly, he cannot breathe. He opens his mouth, but no air enters his lungs. He drops the scanner and latches onto the bed for support as his legs threaten to give. He is nearly overwhelmed with inexpressible panic, and it is making him physically, violently ill. His fingers fumble wildly for something to grasp, something to convince himself that he is not dreaming. Because this is a horrible nightmare if he is. He has been here before. No, this is not his Sickbay. This is the other place, the other universe. This is not his scanner, or his instruments, or his Spock. He takes a step back, his eyes darting wildly around, searching for a way out. The door! Surely, if he can just get out of this place, out of this hellishly twisted place, he'll be all right…but as he begins a lunge for the door, a hand snaps cold and hard around his forearm, and he is yanked cruelly back around to face the fathomless, burning depths of black that are the Spock's eyes._

_ "No…" he whispers. "Not again, please, not again."_

_ "Why did the Captain let me live?" The Spock asks._

_ "Please, no, not again, let me go, let me go!" He tries to fight, to wrench his wrist free of that steel grip, but his limbs are frozen, and will not obey him. He is forced back a step, and then another, as Spock slides off the bio-bed to his feet with that cat-like grace; the killer stalking his prey. The Spock pushes him relentlessly forward until his back meets the unrelenting wall and he is trapped, trapped again, aching with terror, sick with anticipation for what he knows is coming._

_ "No, please. No." His voice is only a whisper, but the Spock ignores him, and one long, delicately-fingered hand raises slowly, three fingers extended. He recoils, staring into those horribly captivating eyes, petrified, sweating, wanting to die rather than feel their icy touch against his skin again. He tries to struggle again, but is frozen, a watcher, horribly of, but not of, the scene. He is utterly helpless against the strength of the Spock, and it makes his stomach twist. All he can feel is the grip of the hand on his wrist and the cold wall pressing against his shoulder blades and small of his back._

_ The fingers make contact against the soft flesh of his face, and his breath stops, his jaw clenches shut, his nostrils flare with the acidic bile that rises in the back of his throat. The fingers press cruelly against the skin of his temple, cheek, and jaw, and even as they settle into place, he can feel the presence of the Spock touch the corners of his mind with an ugly, invasive pressure. He tries to swallow but can't and his mind begins to whirl. The Spock's mouth is moving, and he knows the words, can hear them ringing, pounding through his skull though the voice does not register in his ears._

_ "Our minds are merging, Doctor…our minds are one…I feel what you feel…I know what you know…"_

_ Pain. Swirling, color images, faces, planets, landscapes, racing through his mind, dragged from depths and memories far distant. A cacophony of sound, screams, laughter, voices, familiar voices babbling and shrieking and calling--phaser fire, explosions, maniacal laughter, crying, wailing, rushing waters! The feel of a scanner in his fist, the beeping of the bio-monitors, flesh beneath his fingers, the acidic smell of blood mixed with whiskey, mint, and coffee and sterilized floors. Dozens of still, cold, feature-less faces, corpses, staring up at him from bio-beds, dead, dead, because he could not save them…his own hands stained in blood and sweat, his own face reflected back at him, eyes dark and soulless, empty, empty. Hard hands against his, the warmth of a hug, the chill of snow and ice, a hot drink sliding down his throat, pain in his chest, in his arms, legs, head, a terrible headache, and then--_

_ Joanna's face. Jocelyn's face. Jim. Spock. Scotty. Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, Chapel, M'Benga, Father...A kiss on his lips, the feel of small, thin arms around his neck and a sweet, girlish voice saying his name. "Daddy…" Heartache. Heartbreak. Tears sliding down his cheeks, a fist aching, fingers broken because he has slammed it into the ground over and over. Throat raw and bleeding from screaming at the sky. Swelling, days of alcohol, days of anguish and anger and guilt. Guilt. Despair. Fear. Pain. Terror. Anger. Hatred. Loss. Spock. Spock. Spock..._

_He wakes up._

_

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_I'm rather fond of it, but I wonder if its too dramatic...let me know what you think! That means review if you want more! Please, of course.


	2. Concern

Not a whole lot of action in this chapter, but it's a necessary beginning, I believe. More conflict (and an emotional rollercoaster for poor McCoy, for those anticipating it) in the next chapter, I promise. I don't own anything...

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**One: Concern**

Looking at the man across the table, Jim Kirk could tell that Leonard McCoy had not been sleeping well. His bright blue eyes were dull and dark, mirrored by the shadowy circles under his eyes. His gentle, capable hands with their blunt fingertips and carefully manicured nails (They were artist's hands, McCoy claimed, suited for the delicate work of a surgeon, not like Kirk, whose hands were calloused and scarred) were turning his coffee mug around and around with a gentle scraping sound against the table. He didn't seem to notice—he was staring into the depths of his now cold coffee with a grim, absent-minded scowl. He looked pale, and as Kirk watched, one hand lifted and rubbed across his eyes with a soft sigh.

"You all right, Bones?" he asked, and when the doctor looked up at him, he smiled. "You seem tired."

McCoy grunted, shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose I am," he said. "But I'm all right."

Kirk leaned back in his chair, watching his Senior Medical Officer as he returned to the slow spinning of the coffee cup.

"You don't seem all right," he observed.

McCoy looked up again, this time directing the scowl at his captain. "Well, I am," he said. "Just tired. I haven't…" he hesitated, but continued. "Haven't been sleeping well."

"Getting sick?" Kirk's voice sounded a little too happy (it was simply lovely when Bones was the sick one, for a change), and the coffee cup stopped turning again. Kirk wiped the smile off his face as he was given the Look-the one that only McCoy could give, and the one that always made Kirk wilt just a little. It was the doctor look, the authority look, the one that said _push me any farther and I will make you regret it_. It was the stare that everyone on the ship knew as the no-nonsense, time-for-your-physical glare, the one that no one—not even Spock—could help but obey.

"No, I am not getting _sick_," McCoy snapped. "I'm perfectly healthy, thank you. If you'll excuse me." He stood, and Kirk waved an apologetic hand.

"I'm sorry, Bones. Really, you don't have to leave. You haven't eaten anything yet."

"I'm not hungry."

"Not hungry? You didn't eat anything for breakfast, either."

"What are you, my doctor?" McCoy turned, met Kirk's eyes, and looked away. "I've got work to do. I'll see you later."

"Bones…"

"Captain."

The doctor left without looking back, and as the break-room door hissed shut behind him, Kirk bent forward over the table and rested his chin on his closed fists. That had been most unlike the normally amiable doctor. Sure, McCoy had a reputation of seeming grumpy and cantankerous, but he was almost never genuinely so. Usually, Kirk had little trouble getting McCoy to open up about anything that was troubling him—McCoy seemed to turn to him whenever he needed to get something off his chest. Kirk returned the favor; he could tell McCoy anything. They understood each other, understood better than anyone else on board what it meant to have the lives of four-hundred people in one's hands. They shared the burden, shouldered it together, and it gave them a special bond of brotherhood that they didn't feel with anyone else in the galaxy.

Of course, there was Spock. Spock was the third brother, the third musketeer. He was the constant, steady, logical one that balanced Kirk and McCoy's emotionalism. When Kirk needed someone to empathize with him, he would turn to McCoy. When he needed someone to stabilize him, he would turn to Spock. McCoy did much the same, and it worked beautifully. The three of them knew each other better than they knew themselves, and when one was a little off-balance, the other two knew. All three were brilliant actors, and could fool any crewman on the ship into believing that the sailing was smooth, that life was good. Everyone, that is, except each other. There was no hiding anything, then, no secrets, and no lies.

And so the fact that McCoy was obviously distressed or ill or _something_, and was not telling, was disturbing. When had it started? Surely this wasn't a new development. This had started back…yes, this odd, tired, taciturn, moody McCoy had appeared after they had returned from the mirror universe. Kirk steepled his fingers, focusing on nothing, mind spinning. It had all started back in the mirror episode. Since then, he didn't remember seeing a genuine smile, or hearing any sort of spar from him to Spock, or even seeing the man hardly at all. He had invited his friend to lunch today to chat with his friend for the first time in over a week, and instead it had turned into a one-sided conversation interspersed with McCoy grunts, one word answers, and coffee-spinning. Most unlike the normally witty, sarcastic, talkative Doctor McCoy.

"Kirk to Spock."

A moment's pause, and then Spock's voice issued from the receiver.

_"Spock here."_

"Meet me in my quarters in fifteen minutes. I have something to discuss with you." Kirk hesitated, one finger on the comm, and then said quietly, "It's about McCoy."

There was a silence, and then Spock said, "I will meet you there, shortly, Captain. Spock out."

So there _was _something wrong. This brief interchange with Spock dispelled any doubts Kirk may have been harboring, and he stood and carried his tray to the appropriate receptacle in meditative silence. What could possibly have happened in that universe to make McCoy act this way? Scotty, Uhura, and Kirk himself had certainly been shocked and disturbed by the entire experience, but it hadn't taken long for them to put it behind them. They talked about it now, teased each other, and even enjoyed discussing it, analyzing, speculating. McCoy, though, never joined in with the conversations. He stayed on the outside, offering brief input when asked, but never volunteering or initiating any comments of his own. Funny, that Kirk was only just now realizing this.

When Spock arrived at his quarters exactly fifteen minutes later, Kirk wasted no time in getting to the point.

"Spock, something is wrong with Doctor McCoy."

Spock laced his fingers together, piercing brown eyes locking with Kirk's hazel ones. "I quite agree, Captain."

"He's been acting…sullen, lately. Moody. Withdrawn. It isn't like him, and he won't talk to me. Our conversation at lunch today was disturbing, Spock. In that it wasn't a conversation at all. I talked at him, and he…responded. Barely. I'm concerned."

Spock waited a moment before responding, and when he did, his voice was carefully neutral. "I have noticed that he seems to be avoiding, me, Jim."

_Jim._ Kirk straightened a little in his seat; the gravity in the room was suddenly palpable. Spock only called him by his Christian name when there was powerful emotion behind it, either on Kirk's side of things or, very occasionally, Spock's. Kirk could remember every single time he had heard _Jim _coming from Spock's mouth-the fact that he was using it here was cause for alarm.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I've noticed that too." He was only now realizing that he had. The number of times he had seen Spock and McCoy in the same room together this past week had been minimal. They had not exchanged more than a few sentences during that time. "Have you noticed that he doesn't like to make eye contact?"

"Yes, Captain. Particularly with me. I do not believe that he is sleeping at nights, nor is he eating properly. He is quiet, listless, and extremely anti-social. He has not spent his usual time on the Bridge, nor has he been reported seen out of sickbay except to return to his quarters at night or to occasionally eat or visit the greenhouses. He shows all evidences of being ill, and yet he has done nothing on the record in an attempt to restore health."

"You've checked his records?"

"Just now. He has been injecting himself with a sedative in increased doses every night for the past eleven nights, though whatever seems to be preventing his sleep continues to overpower the drug."

"Are you suggesting it's more than insomnia?"

Spock tilted his head-his version of a shrug. "I do believe that there is something unnatural, or at the least, unknown, preventing him from sleep."

Kirk nodded, letting his eyes rove about the room as he thought, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. "Any suggestions?"

"I suggest we look at the events surrounding the beginning of Doctor McCoy's decline in health," Spock said. "I believe it began when you returned from the time spent in the mirror universe."

"Yes, that's what I've reasoned," Kirk said. He stood, nervous energy driving him to pace. "And yet, I don't know what could have happened to him that is any different from my own experiences, or Scotty or Uhura's. We are all largely unaffected by what we saw and did there. McCoy is the only one that has suffered any ill effects."

"Was the doctor ever alone?"

Kirk bit at the inside of his cheeks, pausing in his pacing to think. "No…no, I don't believe he was. He was with Scotty…or me…no, yes, yes, he was. Toward the end, just before we transported back to our Enterprise. After the fight we had with your counterpart, Mr. Spock, I told you he insisted on making sure that you were all right. We left him alone, then. He came back with your counterpart-I can only assume that they were alone from when I left them. He hasn't spoken to me in detail about what went on between them. I only know the other Mr. Spock somehow learned of the switch and shut down the transporter circuits so that he would have time to send us himself."

"The doctor told my counterpart of your dis-belonging?"  
Kirk stared at Spock for a long moment. "Well, yes. Or, that's what Bones said; that he told the other Spock about us. Why?"

Spock steepled his fingers and let his gaze shift to the floor, eyebrows locked in a tight V. "And did the doctor seem to trust my counterpart?"

Kirk frowned, but refrained from questioning his Vulcan friend about the relevance of the question. "I believe he did…more so than I, at least. He was…adamant about seeing to his health. Wouldn't leave, even with a direct order. He was…very much like you, Spock. Bones seemed particularly willing to trust him."

Spock was silent, eyes dark and brooding. Then he shifted, looked up at Kirk, and said calmly, "I would like to speak to the doctor. Perhaps tonight, if you would accompany me, captain."

Kirk nodded. "It would be my pleasure." He shot his first officer a quick grin, and Spock got to his feet gracefully and moved to the door. He turned as it slid open and said, "It would be best, captain, if the doctor were not forewarned of our coming. I would have our discussion completely free from his prior contemplation."

Kirk inclined his head. "If you think it best, Spock."

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "I do."

And he left.

Kirk sat for a time, thinking, hands resting lightly on the desk in front of him. The odd behavior of one of his best friends was more than concerning from a platonic standpoint. It also affected the Doctor Leonard McCoy that was his Senior Medical Officer. Having his ship's surgeon in any less than top condition was dangerous to a large ship on such a mission as was the Enterprise. He needed the doctor in prime health, both mental and physical, and at the moment, Bones was neither. He may disagree, but Kirk knew his friend well enough to know that if he was showing signs of discomfort, the pain was real enough and advanced enough to be a concern. If he needed to pull the rank card he would—force Bones to tell him, or at least to take care of himself, but he hated to do it. Even if he did, there was no guaranteeing that Bones wouldn't just pull the same card being CMO and override Kirk's commands based on the fact that this was a medical concern. Of course, there were ways around this, but it had the potential to become extremely messy.

_"Sickbay to Captain Kirk." _

McCoy. Kirk punched the comm and spoke into it in his professional voice. "Kirk here. What is it?"

_"Jim…I'm sorry." _There was a sigh. _"I didn't mean to walk out on you like that. Like I said, I've been tired. I'm sorry."_

Kirk smiled, feeling a rush of affection for his friend. "I know. It's all right. You sure you're all right?"

_"Fine. Once I get a decent sleep, I'll be good as new. I know I haven't been up to par this last week, and I'd guess you're starting to think about pulling the rank card on me, make me take care of myself." _

Kirk laughed. They knew each other too well. "Well, it _had _crossed my mind."

_"I thought so." _There was a smile in Bones' voice. _"Well, I thought I'd head it off before you got around to it. I'll get some sleep tonight, Jim, don't worry. I'll be fine."_

"If you're sure."

_"Positive." _There was a brief pause, and Kirk thought of notifying Spock that there was no need to see Bones, at least not yet. But then, _"Oh, and Jim? There's no need to tell Spock of this. I don't know that he's noticed I haven't been sleeping well. I haven't seen him much. And I know how close we all are, and that you might be inclined to speak to him about it. There's no need to worry him—he's got enough on his plate. All right?"_

_Right. _"I understand, Bones." _That doesn't mean I'll comply._

_"Thanks, Jim."_

"You're welcome, Doc. Take care. Kirk out."

Kirk ended the communication and sat back, a grim smile etching itself on his features. After all, it wasn't only Bones who could pull off intimidating, he mused. He had a Glare, and Spock could generally hold his own against any and all of the crew as far as intimidation and Looks-that-shut-you-up-on-the-spot. Together (and he hoped he wasn't being overly optimistic), he and Spock would be more than enough to dig up whatever secret McCoy was keeping buried. Confidence boosted the smile to a regular Kirk-style charmer, but just as he settled back to enjoy a night free of duty, the image of McCoy's darkened, hollow, desperate eyes rose to his mind's eye, and the confidence ebbed away fast enough to give him emotional whiplash. It was times like this that he envied Spock's alleged lack of emotion. A good, healthy dose of logic was just what he needed...unfortunately, Jim Kirk didn't always do logic unless Spock was hovering somewhere nearby and he happened to pick up on the brain waves. Feeling vaguely sick, he leaned forward to rest his head on his arms and prayed for sleep to come quickly.

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I find Spock rather difficult to write, so I hope he's acceptable. Thanks for reading! And thank you to all who reviewed on the previous chapter...I love to hear feedback! Feel free to give me pointers or ask questions too, though I would, of course, appreciate them to be in good taste. Reviews are my life-blood, I swear...don't let me down!


	3. Confrontation

The next installment arrives. Thanks so much all for your reviews! This was a fun one to write, though challenging, keeping all of the emotion stressed enough and yet not too all-over-the-place. I think the balance turned out all right, and the emotional whirlwind that is our doctor is appropriate for the tone, I hope. And I don't own anything.

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**Two: Confrontation**

At precisely 2100 hours, Spock arrived at the door of Kirk's quarters. They did not exchange a greeting, but left immediately for Sickbay. As they strode down the corridors, they fell immediately and unconsciously into step, comfortable with each other and the silence. Kirk moved like he worked—with confidence, purpose, and an obvious pride in his ship and the people with whom he served. He strode rather than walked, head straight, shoulders back, and completely focused; those he passed unconsciously straightened and stepped a little higher, a little faster. Spock moved like a dancer—graceful, smooth, and with a more subdued sense of purpose. He was dignified, straight, and slender, hands usually clasped loosely behind his back. If Kirk had a loud, bold, commanding presence, Spock had the kind that made you go quiet when he walked into the room. Both were a little mysterious to the under crewmen, and were held up as gods of their little world aboard the Enterprise. Kirk was widely known as "my friend, the Captain"; respected, revered, and loved by those who served under him. They obeyed him implicitly, not just because it was their duty, but because it was their privilege. Spock was likewise obeyed without question because the crew trusted his logic, loyalty, and sense of honor…they were also more than slightly intimidated by him. This suited him; he felt no need to be "my friend, Mr. Spock". On the contrary, he would let no one get anywhere near close to him but Kirk and McCoy. He considered Scotty a friend, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, and a few others close acquaintances and partners, but there was no one that understood and calmed him like Kirk did, and no one that intrigued, irritated, and cared for him like McCoy could.

Wrapped in their own separate, similar thoughts, the two men made their way through the familiar, branching corridors until they reached the Sickbay doors, where they stopped and exchanged a glance of mutual understanding. Kirk let out a quick breath, and Spock shifted his weight ever-so-slightly from his right foot to his left, which was his version of preparing himself for the confrontation. Then Kirk took a step forward and the door hissed open. Suddenly all business, he stepped inside, followed a half step behind by Spock.

"Bones?"

Sickbay was virtually empty. An orderly was straightening biobeds in the recovery room, and there were two nurses conferring in low voices over a small stack of records just inside the lab. McCoy, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"His office?" Kirk suggested, and without waiting for a reply, passed the biobeds, the operating rooms, stockrooms, all fourteen labs, and Nurse's lounge to the offices beyond. He knew this place well—he spent enough time in Sickbay that it felt like another home, second only to the Bridge. He was always a little impressed with the orderliness, the cleanliness, and the vast amount of space it occupied. Even more impressive were the doctors and nurses that moved so naturally and competently within it. It was an intimidating Kingdom, but the fact that its King was missing was unsettling and unnatural. Bones was _always _in Sickbay, unless he was on the Bridge. He was always busy; experimenting, recording, researching, or healing. Within its walls, Chief Medical Officer McCoy was the supreme authority, even over Kirk's Captaincy. He commanded the same kind of respect that Kirk did, but on an even more personal level. If Kirk was the god figure on the Enterprise, McCoy was the psychologist, counselor, surgeon, doctor, druggist, bartender, and personal friend to all 430 members of the crew. He had cared for most of them at some point, knew all of their medical backgrounds, and could greet almost every crewman by name. Something about his smile made the crewmembers feel as if they could open up to him, tell him anything and everything, and he would understand.

"Bones?"

All of the rooms in Sickbay were without doors but for the offices, and so it was rather like a large, organized labyrinth with the private offices at one end. McCoy's was the one on the far left, and it was never locked. He had an open door policy, one that he used with both his office and his private quarters on the deck below. Anyone could call at any time of the night with any kind of problem, and he would be available immediately, without question. Kirk himself had utilized this policy shamelessly, at times in the dead of night when he was plagued with insomnia and needed a drink, or a chat, or just someone to sit up with and share a silent companionship. Bones never hesitated, never grumbled, and never locked his doors.

His office was locked.

As Kirk reached for the comm, there was a loud crash from inside, followed by several violent thuds and a muted howl: _"Spock!" _

Spock's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, and Kirk reached again for the buzzer, this time with more urgency. But Spock's hand grasped his forearm, stopping him, and the Vulcan said, "Wait, Captain."

"Spock, he may need…" but he cut himself off and nodded. "All right, Spock. It's your call."

Kirk took a half-step closer to the door, listening, waiting. Spock was straight, hands clasped behind his back, eyes dark and unreadable. A few seconds later, what sounded like broken glass was dumped into the disposal, which whined softly and then was silent. Light footsteps crossed the room, and then there was one loud thump—like a fist slamming into a desk—and then silence.

Kirk looked over at Spock, who stared back at him for a moment and then nodded. Kirk reached out for the third time and pressed the buzzer.

There was a long pause before the door slid open. When Kirk entered, it was to see McCoy sitting at his desk, holding a PADD nonchalantly and listening to a med-tape. He looked completely natural but for an odd red flush about his cheekbones and the dark circles under his eyes. He looked up as Kirk entered, and his eyes flickered briefly to Spock before settling on Kirk with an innocent air.

"Hi, Jim, Spock," he said. "Didn't mean to lock you out. Sorry."

"Bones, I need to talk to you," Kirk said, ignoring the obvious lie. "Mind if we sit down?"

A shadow passed across the doctor's face, but he pushed aside a few PADDs and gestured vaguely at the two chairs opposite the desk. He had a large office, one with several cabinets for records and files, a large, neatly organized desk, and an old-style armchair with a reading lamp and a bookshelf full of both electronic and paper books. Bones was old fashioned that way. Nothing, he said, quite compared with holding a living, breathing book in your hands, physically turning the pages and feeling the soft, worn paper between your fingers. And there was nothing in the universe quite like the smell of an old book. Kirk agreed, and even Spock had never teased the doctor about his love for old books, having a few himself. They were all in Vulcan, of course, which irritated McCoy to no end.

Kirk sat down directly in front of the desk and leaned forward across it, resting his hands on his chin and examining his friend's face. McCoy did not make eye contact. Spock took a seat to Kirk's left, hands clasped in front him.

"Well?" McCoy asked brusquely. "What is it? No one's died?"

"No," Kirk said. "Bones…"

"Spit it out, Jim."

"All right. You're worrying us, me and Spock. You haven't been yourself lately."

McCoy went very still, and his eyes flickered to Kirk's face, to Spock's, and back again. He cleared his throat and, more out of a need of something to do than a courtesy, he reached over and switched off the med-tape. The sudden silence was deafening.

"You're not still worrying about that, are you?" he asked quietly. "I told you, Jim, I'm fine." The accusing glare that accompanied these words said clearly, _and you said you wouldn't involve Spock, you cad. _

"I'm sorry, Bones," Kirk said, and he knew that McCoy understood the double apology. The doctor grunted, shifted position, and gave them a lopsided shrug.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

McCoy rolled his eyes heavenward and growled, "Glory, Jim. Why are you worried?"

"Bones, don't try to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," Kirk interrupted. "Ever since the…_mirror _you've been…strange. You haven't eaten, slept, spent time on the bridge, _nothing_. And I want to know what on earth is going _on _with my Senior Medical Officer."

As Kirk spoke, McCoy's face had taken on the sullen _I'm listening to your voice but not your words _look that was his gut reaction to bullying. In Sickbay, he was the supreme authority. On the entire ship, Kirk and Spock were his only senior officers. Authority was something that he carried rather than obeyed; on any other ship, he would have been court-martialed long ago for the attitude he got away with on board the Enterprise. Kirk knew that he granted far too much lee-way to the ever insubordinate McCoy, but it was part of what made their relationship what it was. Now, facing a squared, silent, stubborn McCoy, he felt exasperation rising quickly.

"Nothing's going on."

"Bull."

"I'm tired."

_"Bull."_

"Stay out of it, Jim."

"Out of what, Bones? Out of _what_?"

"My personal life. My personal feelings. My privacy! I have a right to have a few secrets. I have a _right _to be bloody well left _alone_!" The doctor had stood, and Kirk rose opposite him, staring into his best friend's fury, his own frustration gone, his stomach hollow and knotted.

"Bones," he began, but McCoy turned sharply away from him and walked with short, rapid steps to the other end of the office, where he ran a hand across the tops of his books, shoulders hunched, left fist clenched at his side. Kirk looked down at Spock, who was staring at McCoy, a furrow in his brow, eyes dark and unreadable. Kirk waited, and after a moment, Spock glanced up at him, and then sat forward and addressed the doctor.

"Doctor, are you ill?"

McCoy turned halfway back toward them, and his shoulders jerked noncommittally. "Couldn't say."

"You're a doctor."

McCoy turned a withering gaze on Kirk. "_Yes_, Captain, I am. And here I thought Spock was the logical one."

"McCoy…"

But McCoy had turned his back again, posture defiant, unrepentant. "Would you mind, Captain? I'd like to get some rest."

But Kirk was having none of that. "What broke, Doctor?"

McCoy turned sharply, eyes boring into Kirk's. "You…how much…how much did you hear?" He was surprised, thrown off balance, and Kirk took the opportunity to draw him into the conversation.

"You cried out for Spock."

"Not _for _Spock," McCoy spat, and then seemed to instantly regret the words. He clamped his mouth shut and his eyes darted to Spock, whose eyebrow had risen marginally at the words.

"If not for me, then for what purpose?" he asked.

"I…it's…complicated, Spock," McCoy said, and his voice had lowered a little. He was nervous now, but the anger was still lurking just below the surface. Kirk had never seen such an array of explosive emotion in his friend before.

"I will attempt to understand, doctor."

"Yes, I'm sure you will."

"Bones, sit down," Kirk said, holding out a hand. "Let's just…talk. Get things out in the open. You can't go on like this, Bones. You're not yourself."

"Then who am I, Jim?"

The doctor's voice was low, almost monotone, and he lowered himself gingerly into the desk chair again, stiff and straight-backed.

"You're being difficult!" Kirk's quick temper was rising again, and he forced it away, knowing that now was not the time to start a shouting match with the equally quick-tempered McCoy. "Bones…we just want to help."

"Help with what, Jim?"

"Whatever's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

"McCoy!" Kirk collapsed into his own chair again, staring at McCoy's blank, pseudo-innocent face. "Spock, say something."

"I am afraid that nothing I could say would make the doctor speak if he does not wish to," Spock said calmly. Kirk caught a brief glimpse of a shrewd, calculating look pass across the Vulcan's face, and then Spock continued, and there was an element of rare hesitance in his voice. "Indeed, I am of the mind that nothing short of a mind meld would penetrate his defenses. Perhaps, doctor, if you are unable to speak of what ails you, I might be allowed to look?"

But at the suggestion, the doctor's eyes had snapped to Spock's face, and his jaw had clenched so tightly that Kirk feared it would break. There was a brief expression of such hatred that the hairs on the back of Kirk's neck rose before the expression vanished into the recesses of McCoy's control. With great effort, he gritted out, "No."

Spock did not seem surprised or offended in the slightest, but he gave instead a curious sort of nod of acceptance, as if complete loathing was the only response McCoy could have possibly given. "Then, Captain, I see no further reason for us to be here. Perhaps when the doctor is ready…"

He stood, and McCoy's eyes followed his face up, eyes burning, searing into Spock's face. Spock gazed coolly back, head slightly cocked. And then Kirk realized; McCoy was more than angry, defiant, stubborn…he was afraid. McCoy was frightened. This was enough to make him lay down his last card.

"I could make it an order, doctor." He let his voice harden into that brusque, demanding tone that generated results in even the worst of situations. It was the tone of voice that stopped Spock's logical arguments, McCoy's passionate ones, Scotty's worries, and the crew's doubts. It almost always signified rash, dangerous decisions that only Jim Kirk could come up with, decisions that ninety-nine times out of a hundred produced excellent results. Kirk hoped that this was not that hundredth time.

But McCoy sat frozen for a single instant, and then his face crumpled. He looked lost, sick, and older than Kirk had ever seen him. He immediately regretted the threat, and cast a glance at Spock, who was standing now with arms crossed, forehead creased.

"Jim…please don't…don't order it…" His voice was hoarse and low, begging, devastated.

"Bones." Kirk stretched out his hand placatingly toward McCoy's shoulder, and as his hand made contact with the silky fabric of the medical tunic McCoy melted inward, leaning into the physical touch like a drowning man. His head fell forward, and both hands rose to cover his face.

Then he began to cry.

Of all the things that McCoy could have done, this was the least expected. Kirk exchanged a shocked glance with Spock, whose equivalent expression of shock was his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. Leonard McCoy _never _cried. _Ever._

Jim Kirk had seen McCoy at his best and worst. He had seen him exultant, contented, grumpy, sardonic, frustrated, furious, afraid, depressed, distraught, ill, drunk, and a host of other conditions that only brothers were allowed to see. He had seen him close to death on several occasions, and had he himself been pulled back from death by the doctor's hands on more than several occasions. He had listened to the doctor banter with Spock for four years, and had seen tense situations relieved by McCoy's special brand of sardonic wit countless times. He had been genuinely angry with the man, but it had never lasted longer than a sleepless night of guilt for his outbursts of temper. McCoy got away with insubordination, temper, bossiness, and downright insolence. He was the best friend of all on the Enterprise, and the one that everyone turned to despite his eternal sarcasm and crank. There was no one that he didn't know, and no one that did not know him.

For the first time, Kirk wondered: when you were the person that everyone turned to, who did _you _turn to?

It was all he could do to croak, "Bones….Bones…"

"Perhaps it would be best, Captain," Spock said from the doorway.

Kirk looked up at him and shook his head, surprised that Spock would even suggest leaving at a time like this. He opened his mouth to say something, but it shut of its own accord as he registered the look on Spock's face. It was one he didn't see very often, one that only showed up in the direst of circumstances, in the ones where even Spock allowed for emotion. The Vulcan's expressive brown eyes were urgent, beckoning, pleading him to obey. He hesitated for a moment more, and then reluctantly removed his hand from McCoy's shoulder. As he stood, McCoy slumped over onto the desk, withdrawing into a private world of unnamed grief, shutting his two friends out so completely that Kirk felt as if they had already gone.

"If you need me, Bones," he said softly, "You know where to find me."

There was no reply, but Spock activated the door and stepped out into the corridor, where he stood waiting for Kirk, eyes back to dark, brooding, and inscrutable. Kirk stared at McCoy's prone form for one final moment, and then the doctor's low, aching sobs followed him out.

* * *

Review; let me know what you're thinking!


	4. Connection

And, Chapter Three. Thank you all so much for your reviews...I'm really excited about how many there are! Love you all!

And a warning: my computer is acting up, so I don't know when the next installment will come in. I'll do my best do get it running properly again as soon as possible, but please just be patient! Thanks!

* * *

**Three: Connection**

"You said you had a theory, Spock? Well, spit it out."

"I believe the chances that I am correct…"

"Yes, yes, Spock, I trust you. If you've got a theory I'd consider it correct. What _is _it?"

"I believe that the Doctor has been subjected to a forced mind-meld, Captain. Judging by his late attitude towards myself, his reluctance to speak of his experiences in that alternate universe, and his obvious sleep deprivation, I can see few other logical alternatives."

"Surely a…mind-meld wouldn't have such an effect on him?"

"If unexpected or forced, and if not respectfully and carefully done, they can be damaging, both mentally and emotionally."

"You believe that his mind has been damaged?"

"Not irreparably, Captain. I believe his emotions to be the more fragile."

"And…is there anything that can be done?"

"There are methods, but they involve his allowing me to touch his mind. If the Doctor will allow me to do so…"

"Not anytime soon, Spock, if your theory is correct."

"He must first open himself up to discussion; understand his condition."

"Well, if you can do that, you're a greater miracle worker than Scotty."

"He is indeed a stubborn, private, and very disturbed man at the time, Captain. But I will certainly do all within my power."

"I would expect no less. How are you planning on getting him to talk?"

"First and foremost, Captain, I _must_ do it alone. If my counterpart is to blame, then this becomes a matter of personal fault between the Doctor and myself."

"Spock…"

"Jim, please."

"Very well, Spock. As you see fit. When?"

"Soon. Within the next twenty-four hours. Now that we have breached his emotional barriers to the extent to know for a certainty that there is indeed something amiss, he must allow contact sooner rather than later."

"Well. It's quiet today—whenever you need to go off duty, feel free. No need to ask permission."

"Yes, Captain."

"Good luck, Spock. Fix Bones, won't you? He's fixed me more times than I can count…the favor _ought_ to be returned."

"After you, Captain."

* * *

"Spock, I've been avoiding you…Spock, you may have noticed…Well, Mr. Spock, I can't seem to get something out of my mind…Spock, I don't know quite how to say this, but I've been avoiding you…"

McCoy threw himself into a chair, squeezing his eyes shut, his left thumb fiddling with the ring on his left little finger. He couldn't think, couldn't come up with a way to begin a conversation that he knew had to happen. He didn't know how he was going to face Spock after his emotional breakdown the night before…or Jim, for that matter. Neither one had ever seen him so completely helpless, so utterly devastated. He hated the vulnerability. Jim had called into his office earlier that morning, tentative, concerned, but he hadn't answered, had been unwilling to face his best friend yet. Spock had not attempted communication, but that was no more than McCoy had expected.

"Huh."

_"Spock to Doctor McCoy."_

He jumped, and stared for a brief moment at the panel as if it would disappear if he looked long enough. Then he reached out with one finger and punched the switch.

"McCoy here."

There was a brief pause, then the low baritone voice said delicately, _"Might I inquire as to your health, Doctor?"_

McCoy almost smiled, but his lips managed only to twist into a sardonic grimace. "I'm perfectly healthy, Spock, thank you. And you?"

_"My health is in fine condition…however, I was inquiring more on behalf of your emotional state."_

"If you're talking about last night…" As he spoke the words, he was glad that he and Spock were not face-to-face—he could feel the burn of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

_"I was referring to the last eleven days, Doctor, culminating in the events of last night. However, I hardly believe that this is the time or manner in which to discuss it."_

McCoy tasted the implied invitation, bottom lip captured between his teeth. _Aw, Spock…_ "Mr. Spock, I hardly wish to discuss my emotional health with an emotionless computer like yourself," he said, and then paused, waiting, a ghost of a smile dancing across his face. It felt _good_ to bait Spock, even if this was serious, even if his shoulders and back were suddenly painfully tense and his heart was a jackhammer inside his chest.

_"Doctor…"_

"However, I understand. I'd be willing to sacrifice a little of my time to discuss…well, to talk with you. I…" he sighed, the smile gone, the now familiar depression and fear washing over him again. Words began to spill unchecked out of his mouth, and some small part of his brain wondered _what_ he was doing, but... "I want to talk. I'm sick of…of this, of going on like this, and I…well, glory, Spock, I want to be _happy _again. I…I haven't been, I haven't been happy, I mean, Spock, and I know you wouldn't understand that, but…"

_"On the contrary, Doctor," _Spock said, and his voice was uncharacteristically gentle. _"I believe I may understand more than you think. Would you feel more comfortable in your own quarters, or may I invite you to mine?" _

McCoy hesitated, and it was as if a load lifted as he said, "I'll come to yours. I need…I need to get out."

_"Understood. I shall see you in ten minutes."_

"Let me…let me call down to Sickbay, make sure that they don't need anything."

_ "I have already done so. Nurse Chapel was more than willing to cover your shift if necessary."_

"Oh. Well, thanks, Spock. I'll see you in ten minutes, then. McCoy out."

He cut the connection and stared at his hands, absently turning them over and examining his palms as his mind raced. He was almost sick with nerves, sick with anticipation, but there was relief mixed with the anxiety. Relief, excitement that perhaps this would finally be resolved.

Maybe the nightmares would even go away.

As he stood, he could feel his legs shaking beneath him, and his head felt light. He picked up a PADD and stared at it for something to do for the next few minutes before he would cross the ship to Spock's quarters. The words and symbols danced across his eyes but he did not read them. He noticed that his hands were not shaking, despite the trembling in the rest of his body. _Surgeon's hands_, he thought idly. A doctor's hands never shook. His own were always steady, even when he was dead drunk, ill, or terrified. He may pass out from pain or alcohol, but his hands would remain steady and strong to the end. _Well, when you've got a life depending on the stability and strength of your hands, what else can you do? _

He paced around the parameters of the room once, twice, three times, and then said, "Aw, bloody…" and left.

* * *

The darkness that lurked in the eyes of the man opposite him left him with a surety that his theory was correct. He raised the cup to his lips and took another sip, inviting the doctor with his eyes to do the same. McCoy was looking dubiously at the pale, murky liquid in his own teacup, swirling it slowly in a circle with one hand.

"I assure you, the tea will not poison you, doctor." Spock said quietly. McCoy's eyes moved briefly to meet his, and then he looked away, staring back into the tea.

"I trust…I trust that, Spock," he said.

"I…hope that you can trust me as well," Spock said. The doctor's eyes flickered to his again, but this time they stayed locked on Spock's face, something akin to desperation in the summer-blue.

"Can I, Spock?" he whispered. Then he shook his head. "I…I know I can, truly I do, it's just…its complicated, and I don't know…" he paused, and more as if for something to do than that he wanted to, raised the mug to his lips. One eyebrow kinked at the bittersweet honey taste, and he lowered the cup, staring thoughtfully at it. "Good," he said grudgingly. And then, "Help me, Spock."

One eyebrow begged to be raised, but Spock kept his features carefully still. "I will do what I can to assist you, doctor."

"Tell me what's wrong with me." McCoy's voice was steady, despite the wildness in his eyes and the way his shoulders were hunched into tight knots of muscle and tension.

Spock looked at him, and as their eyes met again, he knew that the time for dodgy communication was over.

"Tell me about your encounter with my counterpart," he said.

McCoy's eyes closed, and when he began to speak they stayed tightly shut, as if he could block out the tide of his own words. His voice graduated from tense, tight, and shaky to low, suppressed horror as he spoke, and Spock listened as the doctor confirmed his suspicions, listened as his own stomach tightened in protest and he felt an irrational, illogical anger at his Mirror self.

"…Spock, I know I'm overreacting, but I can't seem to get over it," McCoy finished, and his eyes finally opened and fixed on Spock's face again. He leaned forward, gravitating toward Spock as he had into Kirk's touch the night before. "I need your help. Spock, I didn't want to ask. I didn't want to seem weak and emotional, but I swear to you, Spock, its tearing me apart. _What did he do to me?_ Am I completely crazy? I've been this close, _this close _to declaring myself unfit for duty. And for what reason? A voodoo Vulcan mind thing. Tell me to get over it, Spock, tell me it's nothing, tell me I'm crazy…"

"None of your nightmares, none of your concerns are unfounded, doctor," Spock said. His hands steepled unconsciously in front of him, and he was vaguely pleased to hear that his own voice was, logically, under control. "You have been subjected to a mind-meld of the most vicious kind. It was what Vulcans refer to as a mind-rape. A completely unwilling subject forced to open his mind to a touch-telepath can have very damaging effects—you are fortunate, doctor, that you are only experiencing nightmares. They are not a product of a traumatic event as are most such dreams, but rather they are a product of an alien presence still lingering in the corners of your human mind. What you have been subjected to is a crime punishable by death in my culture. Do you understand?"

McCoy was staring at him, lips parted slightly, shock registering freely on his face. "You're exaggerating. I'm overreacting, you're exaggerating…"

"I assure you that I am not, Doctor," Spock said. "What you have told me explains your behavior of the past eleven days, and is even a commendation to the strength of your mind. Many humans would have buckled under the strain."

"If I believe my ears, that was a compliment," McCoy said wryly. "Thank you, Spock."

Spock's initial response was to say something along the lines of, "Merely a statement, Doctor", but he pushed the thought away. Now was no time for the bickering that usually so invigorated him. Instead, he inclined his head and began to think. McCoy, recognizing the meditative look on the Vulcan's face, kept quiet, one hand still clenching the cooling teacup.

"I can help your mind to heal," Spock said finally, lifting his eyes to McCoy's hopeful face once more. "But you will not like my method."

"I'll do anything," McCoy promised rashly. "Anything, Spock. You don't understand what a hell it's been ever since I got back…"

"It would require a mind-meld."

McCoy blanched. "What?"

"My mind to yours, Doctor. An erasure of the pain and the terror you now associate with myself and my mind, and a psychological realization that what you experienced is not to be expected every time you are touched by a telepath. A gentle brush across your mind, closing the wounds and ridding your memories of the alien trace that has been left by my counterpart."

McCoy collapsed back, visibly shrinking. He covered his face with both hands, the gold ring on his left hand glinting in the soft light in Spock's cabin. "Aw, Spock," he murmured.

"I recognize your fear and sympathize with you, McCoy," Spock said softly. "But unless you wish to allow your mind to heal on its own…"

"Don't be insulting," McCoy growled, lifting his head and glaring at the Vulcan. "I'm a doctor; I know the need for counseling, for outside help in circumstances like this. You don't get over a rape psychologically or physically by yourself, Spock, and I don't pretend to be able to get over this on my own. I'm not too proud to accept your method. If it's the only way…"

"To my knowledge, it is."

"Then I'll do it." McCoy stood abruptly and moved away from the desk, hands clasped behind his back, eyes hooded and cold. "Now."

Spock stood slowly. "Are you sure that you're ready…"

"I'm sure, Spock!" McCoy snapped, straightening his shoulders. "Get on with it." As an afterthought, he added, "Please. I'd rather it be now. If you're ready."

"I am ready, Doctor."

He could sense the fear rolling off the doctor in waves. Leonard McCoy was a very emotional, passionate man, and adding to that the fact that he was one of the two men in the world that Spock considered close enough to be a brother, the man's fear was palpable. Spock inhaled, tasting the tension, admiring the quiet strength of a man he had never before considered exceptionally strong. McCoy was a brave, stubborn man, a compassionate and gentle doctor, and a loyal friend and officer, but Spock had never put his overall strength to thought. He could now see something in the doctor that he had never recognized before, a will that rivaled the Captain's or his own in a quiet, unassuming fashion.

Spock took a step closer, staring into the sharp, pale blue eyes and reaching out one hand. The doctor flinched. Spock paused. McCoy jerked his head to one side, indicating Spock to _just get on with it._ Spock lifted his arm, fingers extended; they were now only two feet apart…one foot…six inches…contact.

Spock had barely felt the cool skin of McCoy's cheek and jaw under his fingers when the doctor jerked violently away, stumbling back a step, one hand flung out in front of him like a shield. He said nothing, but he was visibly shaking as shock spread across his face. Spock lowered his hand.

"Doctor?"

"Spock, I…I'm sorry. I didn't think…" McCoy took another step back and sank into a chair, jaw tight. "I can't do that. It shouldn't be like this. I knew what to expect. I _knew_ what to expect."

Spock nodded slowly, and he clasped his hands behind his back, watching McCoy regain his composure through lidded eyes. He could feel the doctor's shock and fear giving way to anger and embarrassment, and he marveled not for the first time the violence of human emotion. He could see that McCoy wanted and even needed physical contact, something that he found human beings in generally but specifically the good doctor and their Captain seemed to find reassuring. He also knew that he was not the one to provide that reassurance.

There was only one logical alternative to himself.

* * *

Okay, this is about to spin off in a completely different direction than what I intended, but I was bit by one of those plot bunnies...you know how it goes. Review, and then hang on...I'm not entirely sure what the little devils have planned yet.


	5. Complications

Well, I got my computer back! Turns out they had to replace the entire motherboard. Fun aye? But anyways, its back, and so here's the much delayed next chapter! Thanks for sticking with me! And thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed, added this to Story Alerts or Favorites, and everyone else for reading. I cranked this one out more quickly than the others, and so haven't really read over it like previous chapters. If there are any obvious grammatical or other errors, please be kind but do point them out, if you feel so inclined, so that I can fix them! Thanks for your patience!

-EmRose

* * *

**Four: Complications**

Kirk idly bounced his fist on the arm of the center chair, eyes glazed, playing with the double vision, snapping in and out focus. One Mr. Sulu, now two…one shy looking young yeoman…quite attractive…now two of her, even better…Mr. Chekov, then two of him, and so forth. He had made sure he was facing the general direction of the viewscreen before he had let his mind atrophy, grateful that business on the Bridge was slow. He stared frontward, only barely registering Uhura's quiet, soothing humming (he thought it might be pointed at him, but couldn't bring himself to analyze her possible motives) behind him and the discreet, sidelong glances from Sulu and Chekov. A very small part of him was irritated by their constant twisting to eye him when they thought he wasn't paying attention, but he didn't have the heart to scold them. He thought vaguely he should know why they were looking so concerned, why he had been largely avoided for the past few hours, and why Uhura was now humming a lilting lullaby that happened to be one of his childhood favorites, but thought too that he was acting respectably normal given his current chaotic emotional status.

Sulu turned again, shooting him a quick glance, seemed on the verge of saying something, but thought better of it and turned back again after trading a look with Chekov, who sighed audibly. Kirk scowled, but there was no real motivation behind his aggravation. Uhura's humming increased ever so subtly in volume. She had a pretty voice, he thought. He enjoyed listening to her, enjoyed having the constant presence of a female on the Bridge to balance out the male population that made up the regular Bridge crew. She was like a sister to all of them…a comforting, beautiful older sister. Except to Scotty. Kirk had long thought that his chief engineer harbored as soft spot for his communications officer, and he rather thought that she harbored one back. He had no proof, but trusted his knack for intuitively knowing things, especially when it came to women. Perhaps Uhura would finally be the one woman who could steal Scotty away from his engines for longer than a minute and a half. Kirk smiled at the thought, and Chekov caught the vacant grin at nothing and traded another anxious glance with Sulu. Kirk's face dropped into a scowl again, but before he could muster the energy to put a stop to their infuriating attention, his mind drifted halfway across the ship and found Spock and McCoy yet again.

He ached to be with them, and as he shifted position restlessly he noticed the thumping fist and tucked it into his lap hastily. Restlessness was never a good emotion to portray as Captain on duty; no wonder Sulu and Chekov were concerned. He coughed, uncrossed his legs, and made a causal remark about their speed and bearing just to prove that he knew what his ship was doing. His helmsman and navigator jumped on the first sign of life from their Captain in over two hours and interrupted each other several times in their eagerness to reply. Uhura chuckled gently from her station but said nothing. Kirk lapsed back into silence, and noticed with some exasperation that his left leg had replaced the fist for bouncing agitatedly. He stilled it, but when it began bouncing again barely forty seconds later he gave up the attempt and let it.

Spock had left the Bridge a few hours ago, silently, with only a nod to show that he saw and understood the plea in Kirk's limp wave. No one else on the Bridge had commented, though Uhura had watched him leave with something like compassion in her dark eyes, and when she had transferred the look to Kirk, he was unable to meet her eyes. He knew that she had noticed McCoy's absence from the Bridge as much as any of them, perhaps more. McCoy was always charming and genteel around all of the female crew, but Kirk knew that Uhura was as different for him as she was for the rest of the Bridge. She was softer, more empathetic, more real than many of the business-like crewmembers. She spent almost as much of her free time in Sickbay with Christine Chapel as McCoy did on the Bridge, and so she saw a lot of the good doctor…except for these last almost-two-weeks.

Kirk hoped that Spock was changing that.

The intercom on the center chair opened frequency with a soft trill and he grabbed at the arm, his heart jumping to his throat. He swallowed it with difficulty and said, "Kirk _he_re" with a rather embarrassing break. There might have been a faint snicker from the lieutenant at the science station, but Spock's voice took precedence over the inclination to send the offender straight to the brig.

_"Captain, might I ask you to join me in my quarters?"_

"How is he?"

_"I will explain everything…in the privacy of my quarters."_

"Of course. Of course…I'll be right down. Kirk out."

His heart was sinking past his chest and straight to his stomach, but he stood, face impassive and, he hoped, calmer than he felt. "Mr. Sulu, you have the conn."

"Yes, sir."

As he passed Uhura's station, she laid a hand gently on his arm. He paused, looked down at her, met her warm, brown eyes and felt suddenly as calm as he hoped he looked. He smiled at her, prayed that his gratitude was conveyed appropriately in the hand he laid briefly on her shoulder, and departed.

* * *

He was such a fool. He could feel Spock's eyes on him, heard the First Officer hail the Bridge and ask for Captain Kirk, and felt unnecessary rage at the wave of embarrassment that washed over him at the sound of the Captain's _how is he?_

He let Spock's voice dull to a murmur in the back of his mind as he replayed the last few moments over and over again until they seemed etched permanently into his memory. The shame triggered a defense mechanism, and his own voice started monologuing in his head, feeding the self-recrimination. _Stupid fool, you stupid, stupid idiot, do you have no control? Do you have no self-control? He was trying to help and you botched it, you botched it you fool of a man, you have no control, no self-confidence, no pride, you're afraid, you're afraid of Spock, why should you be afraid of Spock? _

He did not realize he was rocking back and forth until Spock brushed his shoulder delicately with one hand. He lifted his face from cupped hands and forced his body to still.

"Jim's on his way, then?" it came out as a croak, but Spock nodded. "Spock, I…I'm sorry. I ruined it. I didn't mean to ruin it. I thought I was better than this."

"You are not foolish, doctor—your mind is ill. That you need help is not a weakness, but if you will permit yourself to admit to the fact, it may become a strength. You are a brave and intelligent man, Doctor McCoy, and I have full confidence that you can and will heal."

Surprise brought a delighted smile despite himself as something warm blossomed in his chest at the words. He wasn't sure what to do with this blatant, very un-Spock like take on his character, and he covered for his embarrassment with a bit of much needed and much missed needling. "Why Spock. That was a highly illogical statement."

Spock looked at him, and there was a kindness in his eyes that made the warmth expand and the tension in shoulders lessen.

"Simple facts, doctor. That I happen to believe them does not change the quality of the logic. Call it faith if you will—" He stopped, now, seeming uncomfortable and unwilling to start a debate. A piece of McCoy regretted bringing up the illogicality of Spock's confidence in the first place, and he raised a hand to wave it off. Another mantra began. _Why couldn't you just accept the compliments? Enjoy it while it lasted…well, maybe because you've never really heard anything like that before. And certainly not from Mr. Spock himself…fascinating. _A snort escaped him before he could restrain himself, but he ignored the lifted eyebrow. _Well, look at that—the pointy-eared devil is rubbing off on you. Fascinating indeed. _

"I understand, Spock. Very logical. And…thank you."

If he was expecting a _one does not thank logic, Doctor,_ he was disappointed. Spock only inclined his head, and then someone tapped the comm outside. Spock reached behind him and flicked the toggle on his desk—the door slid open with a quiet hiss and the always-overwhelming presence of James Kirk made the room suddenly much, much smaller. McCoy would have laughed if the expression on Kirk's face hadn't been so serious. _What is _wrong _with me?_

"Bones?"

"I'm fine, Jim." He hastily rectified the statement at the immediate glare from his commanding officer with "All right, all right. I'm no better than I was. But nothing's _worse_, I swear."

"Mm hmm. Spock?"

McCoy's gut reaction was to bristle at Kirk's obvious desire for another opinion, but whether it was because he didn't have the energy for a confrontation or he knew that Kirk meant no harm by it, he kept his bristling to an internal grumble. Spock explained briefly their diagnosis, solution, and results, somehow managing to make their conversation sound like a science experiment gone wrong. McCoy folded his arms tightly across his chest and crossed one leg over the other as he listened, refusing to meet Kirk's occasional obvious glances in his direction or Spock's infinitely more subtle ones. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but knew enough about psychology and abuse cases to know that his symptoms definitely put him in the _you can't do this alone _category. Despite the fact that he had already admitted as much to Spock, there was a piece of him that screamed to make his two closest friends leave him alone, to let him work through it on his own. It was ridiculous, even to him; he couldn't get rid of the depression. He had no inkling of where to even begin. Spock had made the barest of skin contact, and he had reacted so violently that he had scared himself. The doctor inside him was ordering him to continue with Spock's "treatment", to trust and to acknowledge again and again that he wasn't capable of fixing himself. The stubborn, pigheaded, independent Leonard McCoy that was, unfortunately, his dominant personality, was ordering him to _man up already_. And then there was a very small, persistent, frightening part of him that was whispering, _you're terrified._

"…Bones? Bones!"

"Sorry, Jim. What were you saying?"

"I haven't said anything yet, Bones. I'm trying to get your attention."

McCoy smiled weakly. "Well, you've got it. Go on."

Kirk didn't do the eyebrow raise, but the look he gave McCoy was essentially the same message. He sat on the edge of the desk, one foot planted firmly on the floor, propping his body up on one elbow.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"What else would you suggest, Jim?"

Kirk shook his head. "I can't pretend that I'm not worried. I don't want…Bones, I don't want to see you have to go through another mind-meld if there's another way. A drug, maybe, one of your potions, counseling, anything."

Ignoring the insulting reference to his McCoy looked to Spock. It was no good pretending that any of those options wasn't more appealing, but he had a feeling that none of them was going to be satisfactory.

"Spock?"

The Vulcan shook his head slowly, pity for both human men lacing his words with severe finality. "There is no other way, Captain," he said quietly. "To dispel the lingering traces of the presence in his mind will require much more than mere psychology or any form of medical treatment. I am…sorry."

McCoy let out a shuddering breath, but it was nothing he didn't already know. Kirk's concern had allowed him a moment of hope, but Spock's reiteration tugged him mercilessly back to reality. The few seconds that he had allowed himself to consider another possibility angered him, and he snapped, "Well, let's get on with it, then. I'm ready."

Disbelief from both men, but he stood, resolutely ignoring their skeptical stares. "Come on, come on," he said. "Come _on,_ Mr. Spock. Seeing as it's your bloody fault I'm here in the first place…"

"_Bones!_"

He regretted the words instantly. His first impulse was to lash out again, use his temper to protect himself, but one look at Spock punctured the urge. There was an understanding on his implacable face, and a softness about it that McCoy had rarely seen. Even as he opened his mouth to apologize, Spock raised a hand to stave it off.

"I understand, Doctor," he said.

And that was that.

Kirk moved behind him without further hesitation and gripped his upper arms with two large, square, firm hands. He leaned back slightly against the broad chest, and felt an answering squeeze from the hands. Kirk's breath brushed against his neck, and it was a soothing, protective warmth; his body was chilled, freezing in apprehension to death despite the sometimes overpowering heat of Spock's quarters. He felt as if he stood there for a lifetime, feeling Kirk's individual fingers grasping his biceps, the hard, muscular chest and the low, regular breathing against his back, and this time, having such a presence so close was keeping the fear at bay. He watched Spock as if from a distance, taking a step, a step, a step nearer, one arm lifting, gentleness in his face.

"Relax your mind, Doctor," Spock's voice reminded. He took a breath, felt the pressure on his upper arms increase, a heart-stopping jolt of anticipation, and then Spock's soft, cool fingers brushed his cheekbone. His head jerked back involuntarily, even as he screamed at his body to _hold still you fool_ and he felt the back of his head make unwelcome contact with the flesh of Kirk's face. He heard Kirk's short yelp of surprise and pain, but the strong body behind him did not yield, and Spock's fingers settled easily and eerily into place. He fought them, trembling, and he was never sure whether the screams he heard were inside his own head or if they had physically ripped from his throat.

A moment later, he no longer cared.

* * *

Kirk gripped the shuddering body tighter as Spock's fingers probed calmly, pressing gently against McCoy's face. The pain in his nose was already lessening, and he thought with some comfort that at least the back of McCoy's head hadn't broken it. He couldn't see the doctor's face, but knew that the eyes would be open, locked with Spock's, though how much they were seeing he didn't know. He realized that his grip was unnecessarily strong on McCoy's arms, and he relaxed them a little guiltily, only to tighten them again as the body he held bucked, muscles contracting, and then sagged; Kirk was left supporting a deadweight. He shot an appalled glance at Spock, who ignored it, eyes still fixed firmly on McCoy's face, both hands now on his forehead, jaw, and cheekbones. Minutes passed, and Kirk didn't dare interrupt; the doctor was slight enough that his weight wasn't an issue yet. McCoy was eerily silent, and he couldn't tell from Spock's face if he was responding correctly to whatever was happening in their locked minds. He longed to be part of the procedure, and as the minutes ticked slowly by his impatience increased. He shifted McCoy's weight, which he was beginning to feel, and suddenly it was all over.

Spock pulled McCoy gently from his grasp with smooth urgency, and Kirk swallowed a yelp of protest as he swung the doctor up into his arms and crossed the room in three easy strides to deposit him on his own low-slung bed. Spock then knelt beside the prone figure and laid a hand gently on the forehead, brow creased. Feeling abandoned and more than a little worried, Kirk joined Spock at the bedside, and when he spoke, his voice sounded thunderous in the quiet.

"What happened, Spock?"

"He fought," Spock said. "Only at the moments when he was able to force his considerable defenses down did I manage to slip further inside, but only by minute degrees. Once far enough inside, it was a simple enough matter to correct—I simply laced images and feelings of my counterpart with the infinitely more positive emotions I found in the memories he carries of myself. I have not taken away the memory of his experience with the other Spock, but once he awakens, it will no longer be a threat."

"And…when will he wake up?" It seemed ridiculously easy, now that it was done, and Kirk wondered why such a simple procedure had taken them nearly two weeks to manage. But Spock wasn't answering, and when the Vulcan stood and made solemn eye contact, Kirk knew fear.

"What is it?" he whispered. "What's wrong?"

"In my desire to correct his illness there is a possibility that I taxed his mind beyond its limits," Spock said quietly. "He should not be comatose, Captain. He should not have collapsed. He fought me…fought with a strength I had not expected. I dared not withdraw; by the time I realized how involved his mind was with keeping me out, immediate withdrawal would have caused more harm than help. It was difficult to work as deep as I was already, and I did not know if I could manage it a second time were I to abandon this first attempt. Going through with the adjustments may have been a very costly error, and yet I do not know what else I might have done…"

He hardly heard the implied plea at the end. "Taxed beyond its limits, Spock? What you're saying is that when he wakes up, his mind might be…might not be all _there?_"

Spock lifted his chin ever so slightly, and though Kirk saw and heard the Vulcan fear and pain behind the eyes and in the cool baritone voice, he could not bring himself to offer comfort. Not when McCoy was lying so very frighteningly still on the bed in front of him. Spock had just admitted to a _mistake._ A mistake made inside another man's mind. A possible, very costly error…for the first time, Kirk understood McCoy's instinctive aversion to what he referred to as "Vulcan voodoo", because that same aversion was rising like acid bile in the back of his throat.

"Spock."

"Having never accomplished such a meld before, I cannot say, Captain. But if he wakes up…"

"If? _If_, Mr. Spock?"

The hurt, the self recrimination were obvious now in those dark eyes, though the pale, chiseled face remained impassive. "I am sorry, Jim. For your sake as much as for his. I am sorry."

No words would come. Kirk brushed roughly past his First Officer, who stepped back, hands behind his back gripping each other hard enough to break a man's fingers. Kirk knelt next to McCoy, searching for some sign of life in the relaxed, sleeping face, finding none, and gripping a hand instead, as if by physical touch alone he could pull McCoy back to consciousness. As he knelt there, listening to Spock's voice replay over and over again in his mind, he felt the anger building into a rage, felt the fear hit him like a lead bullet to the gut. What if he _never woke up?_ And if he did, what condition would his mind be in? Was it medically possible to heal? Just _how far _had McCoy's mind shut down when Spock had left it?

"Mr. Spock…_what have you done?_"

* * *

Please review! I'm going to try to update much sooner than this last chapter, but I do work now, and I have to figure out exactly how I want to wrap this up the most effectively. So bear with me…heart you all! :)


	6. Chasm

I don't own anything, of course, though I wish I did. Thanks again for your patience...I think I know where I want to go with this now. Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews! They inspire me to keep going, really. I apologize for the last cliffie, though I'm not really sorry.

* * *

**Five: Chasm**

_Smoke. Darkness. Red, black, blue, white, white noise, growing louder, louder, uncomfortably loud, deafening, painful, overwhelming…silence. _

He opens his eyes, and he is in Sickbay. But this time, he does not believe for a moment that it is his own. He is instantly wary, on guard, seeking already the door, the means of escape from the one place he hates to, but must, call prison. As he whirls, finds the door, and leaps for it, a ghostly whisper halts him. He stutters, turns again, and his eyes dart to the cot upon which he usually lies, but this time the blankets are smoothly tucked around an empty mattress. Its vacancy taunts, and the silent, dark med-panel above it is staring at him, mocking his expectations. He feels a pair of eyes on the back of his head, and as the hair on his neck spikes, he flings himself around yet again, but there is, as he suspected, no one there.

Now, he is unashamedly spooked. The comfortable whirr of machinery is noticeably absent, leaving a terrible silence in its place. All he can hear is his own harsh breathing, and even as he tells himself to get a grip, that he is a grown man and completely capable of defending himself against the odd ghost or spirit, the sibilant whisper hisses in his right ear and he cannot suppress a cry of alarm. He stumbles across to the usually occupied cot and runs shaking hands across the smooth surface as if the body of Mr. Spock is lying hidden beneath the light blue. He almost wishes that the not-Spock was there, because at least he knows what happens in those dreams. He knows that as soon as the meld is over he will wake, and be free from this shadow of his Sickbay, and somewhere deep inside him he remembers that this time when he wakes up he might be free from the nightmares altogether. He had been expecting this, he remembers now; expecting one final return to that mirrored ship before his Spock banished it forever.

That this dream is different than all of the others is disturbing. He is honest with himself, and admits that he is frightened, and that in and of itself gives him the courage to straighten and stare down at the empty cot with courage rising slowly.

He is Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer aboard the Starship Enterprise. And he is not going to let this frighten him. No, not even that terrible, aching whisper from over by the door. He is going to meet it head on.

And so he turns toward the door and strides confidently towards it, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes fixed frontward. As he nears the door, he has a sudden doubt; what if he is not able to get out of Sickbay? He has never made it far enough before—what if there is nothing beyond?

But his fears are allayed as the door opens at his footsteps, and the snap-hiss of its opening breaks the silence comfortingly. Before he leaves, he turns to look once more at the cot, but it is still empty. A stab of dread as he wonders for the first time where that Mr. Spock is, if not here, but he swallows the emotion and wonders when he turned into such a coward.

The ship is empty. He wanders the corridors aimlessly at first, glancing repeatedly around him to make sure that the footsteps he hears are truly in his imagination. As he passes the Greenhouse Bay, he thinks of Sulu, and then he thinks of the Bridge and quickens his footsteps. He reaches a turbolift, and at his command it slides into motion. The sound of his own voice was reassuring, and so he begins to talk into the emptiness, shutting out the occasional recurrence of the wordless whisper, which seems to have followed him from Sickbay.

"Wonder what you'll see when you get to that Bridge, Lenny my boy. Mr. Sulu at his post, of course, and Mr. Chekov. Always together now, ain't they? For a while there I didn't never think they'd like each other much…well, goes to show that anyone can become friends, I suppose. Take Jim and you, Len. Underneath I guess we're purty much the same, but you wouldn't guess it from lookin' at the outside. Naw, he and you didn't get along much in the beginning either until you learnt to compromise your stubborn ideas and get along. Now…"

But he doesn't want to think about Spock, and is fortunately spared by his arrival on the Bridge. He hasn't prepared himself for anything but the image of Navigation and Helm at their posts, Jim in the center seat flirting with his shift yeoman, an engineer at Engineering, Uhura at Communications, and the familiar pointy-ears and coal-black head at the Science station.

The emptiness is crippling.

He floats onto the Bridge, stumbling down the few short steps and falls into the center seat as if he can go no further. No one on the Bridge. He is on a ghost ship, a ghost ship with a ghost that was following him incessantly, hissing nothing into his ear. He slumps forward in the command chair, hands clasped in front of him, elbows resting on knees. He has never seen the Bridge from this particular view before; has never sat in this chair in all his months and years on board the Enterprise. He has never felt a desire to, but now it strikes him as queer that such a simple thing as a chair should be so taboo for any but a select few of a crew of four-hundred and thirty people.

"Len, you don't belong here," he says out loud, cutting across another murmur from Science. And he doesn't mean just the center seat. "Sickbay. That's where you'll find the answers to all of this. Spock isn't here. And as much as you don't wanna admit it, you need him to get outta this."

He isn't sure when he'd come to that consensus, but he doesn't know how else he'll pull himself back to consciousness, and the devil if he isn't ready to wake up. As he folds himself out of the center seat, he wonders what makes this dream different than all of the hundreds of others he'd had in his lifetime. Don't you usually wake up the instant you realize you're dreaming? This thought unsettles him enough that he dismisses it abruptly, choosing instead to devote his energies to drowning out the whispers that follow him into the turbolift. Because there is another one. He's not sure how he can tell that there are two now, but they are somehow different in tone or pitch or _something_, and this makes him feel somehow that he is being flanked by his two best friends when they're being particularly annoying.

"You're being haunted, Doc. I am now convinced that the _Enterprise_ is very, very haunted. You learn new things every day, don't you? But leave me alone, will ya? Leave me _alone_. This Doc's got no patience, and if you've been hanging around this ship long enough you'll know when I lose what little I got the results are _un_pleasant. Just ask Jim. Ask Spock. He'd know better than Jim, even."

The sibilant indiscernible mutters increase in volume briefly and then die, almost as if they are responding to his monologue. One side of his mouth twitches upward in a smile, and he is no longer afraid of them. They are the only other sound he has heard on the ship since his falling into Sickbay, and he decides to regard them as companions rather than a menace, at least until they prove themselves otherwise. In the back of his mind he wonders; if he's imagining the sound, does that mean that he's finally gone mad, finally truly started talking to himself? But then, does that really matter? It is a potential problem that he decide to deal with later—his most immediate problem is finding Spock.

The corridor to Sickbay is still empty, but as he reaches the entryway he hesitates. He does not really want to go back inside. It is not that he is afraid, but rather that he is unwilling to face the deadness of a place usually so comfortably busy. So he guides his footsteps past the door and down toward Engineering instead, informing the Whispers of his decision. He isn't sure if they approve, but then, what does he care for the opinion of disembodied ghost-voices, anyway?

Engineering is silent too, but this time the quiet is more than discomforting, it is unnatural and eerie. The engines are not running. He runs a hand across a dark, hollow console, fingertips cold, breath coming short. He knew he was in a dream, _knew_ that this was not real, but never has he seen the ship so still before. No people, no machinery, only him, wandering the empty corridors of a ghost-ship. He is floating through space with no way to steer, no knowledge of how to control the engines, and nowhere to direct it to.

He breaks out in a cold sweat as another thought strikes him.

What if he can't wake himself up?

Without Spock, what can he do?

Trapped in a world in which there is no direction, no companionship, and no means of escape. He does not feel hungry, nor tired, and he has the feeling that he will not feel so, not in this dream. He is trapped inside his own mind, and his only hope is that his body will wake itself when it is rested, and that it will not seem to take an eternity to wake. But this hope is feeble, and he knows it. A conscious, healthy mind would have woken itself long ago…all he can assume is that his mind is no longer whole or healthy.

He sits down, arms draped across the armrests, staring at a console full of buttons and dials and toggles and switches that he cannot even begin to fathom, and his dream-mind mercifully shuts down for a long while. He thinks of nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing. He is floating, flying, falling, and he cannot find solid ground.

* * *

Montgomery Scott had been having a five star day until Kirk had asked him to Spock's quarters, with that Something in his voice that drew him away from the beautifully humming engines of his beautiful lady without a moment's protest. He strode down the corridors feeling his five star day degenerating with every step. He had no idea how many stars that Something in Kirk's voice would knock off, but he had a nasty feeling that it might drop all the way to a one.

Which would be unfortunate.

But as he entered Spock's quarters and met Kirk's hollow hazel eyes, his stomach plummeted, and he took a sharp, short breath.

"What is it, Captain?"

"Bones," Kirk said softly.

"The doctor?"

Spock stood up into Scott's line of vision, and he turned to focus on the Vulcan instead. Kirk sidestepped, and Scott saw that he had been kneeling next to the short bed. One leg was still pressed up against it, as if he couldn't bear to break contact. His near hand rested on the bed covers, hovering close to the elbow of one of Scott's best friends in the galaxy. The friend who looked more dead than alive with that pale face and waxy sheen to his skin. He knew for a split-second that the doctor really was dead, but then he saw the chest rise and fall in a shallow breath, and his own pent-up air exploded in a name.

"McCoy…"

Kirk's hand touched his arm briefly, and as Scott met the eyes again, searching for an explanation, the Captain swallowed and jerked his head toward Spock.

"Mr. Spock…Mr. Spock will explain. He will know better than I."

Was that bitterness in the tone? There was a definite rigidity to the square in Spock's shoulders, and the fingers on the coverlet had clenched violently before they were obviously forced to relax and resumed their brushing of the bed sheet.

"Mr. Spock? Please, explain this," he said.

Spock began, and as Scott listened, the horror rose, and the bitterness in the Captain's voice was identifiable. Kirk, in his peripheral, was pacing back and forth, four steps each way in the confined space, taking quick, short steps, arms crossed on his chest. Spock's eyes flickered occasionally to him as he narrated, and every time they moved away from Scott, the engineer allowed his own to slide onto McCoy's prone form, and his gut twisted a little tighter.

When Spock finished, Scott understood, but unlike the Captain, and most unlike what he had thought he knew of himself, he was not angry. Instead, he felt only sadness, pity, fear, an aching hurt in his chest. This was what it meant to have your heart hurt, he thought. He'd never really understood that particular phrase, but now he knew; the heart could hurt just as much when it was emotionally beat upon as a surface wound when beaten physically. He didn't respond to the silence for a few seconds, letting the scientific part of his brain pound out the options. He came up empty.

"There isn't anything I can do?" he asked, just to make sure.

"No," Kirk answered curtly. Then more gently, "No, Scotty. We just wanted you…wanted you to know. We thought you had the right. We'll keep it quiet from the rest of the crew until we know more, one way…or the other."

"Aye," Scott said. He looked at Spock for permission to approach the bed, and Spock understood the unspoken question and took a reluctant step away from the doctor. Scott moved closer and reached out a hand to brush the blue shirt, feeling awkward and helpless. He couldn't bear to look at the face for long, and so he ended up staring at McCoy's chest for a time, trying to think up a tactful way to say what he wanted without increasing the obvious tension between his commanding officers. Finally, he came to the consensus that he'd never really been a tactful man, and that this was no time to start.

"Mr. Spock, I'll have you know that I'm glad you did what you could. I understand there wasn't much that_ could _be done, and I'm confident that you did your best. I canna blame you, and I'm fairly certain that the good doctor wouldn't condemn you, either."

He held his breath, waiting for the reaction, and it was an uncomfortable few seconds of waiting before Spock nodded.

"The gesture is appreciated, Mr. Scott. However, I take full responsibility for my actions and for the doctor's present condition. The blame is mine, and I will not have…"

"Scott's right, Spock."

Kirk's hand rested a brief, heavy weight on Scott's shoulder, and there was an almost imperceptible squeeze before the Captain brushed past the startled engineer to stand almost nose to nose with Spock.

"I'm sorry," Scott heard Kirk whisper, and despite himself he smiled. Perhaps he was better at this tension-relieving business than he'd thought. "You're not to blame, Spock. You did all you could. Perhaps he's no worse off than he's been for the past two weeks. You've never let me down yet, Spock, and I was wrong. Scott," and here he turned to acknowledge and include his Chief Engineer into the conversation again, "was right. McCoy wouldn't have blamed you either. Whatever's going on in that mind of his, he'd understand. He _will _understand. He'll pull through. He's never let me down either."

Spock seemed to have no reply to this little speech, and so he simply bowed his head to one side in acceptance, though Scott was fairly sure he hadn't forgiven himself so readily. There was a warmth back in his eyes now, though, and before he and Kirk both gave their attention back to the doctor, they brushed Scott's face and said _thank you_ whether or not Spock had meant to convey the message.

* * *

Another whisper joins the first two. They rouse him his comatose state and buoy him back to action. They are his company, but he wants to be alone. He wants to be able to think without being followed by three indecipherable whispers that are grating on his thin nerves. He pulls himself out of the chair and stumbles out of Engineering, his temper rising. With his temper comes hope, and though he has no idea where to begin looking for a way out of this prison in his mind, he is determined to start looking. He ignores the sibilance in his ears with an increasing irritability, and his step increases in speed as if he can leave them behind if he can walk fast enough. The whispers are louder, and he doesn't know how he can tell, but they don't seem directed at him anymore. It is almost as if they are having a private conversation, and as he nears Sickbay again he decides to test the theory out of sheer desperation.

"Leave me alone, won't you?" he says, whirling. The whispers cease. "I'm blasted sick of your muttering! Either say what you've got to say or get out of my hair and have your conversation somewhere else! I've got my rescue to work out! Well?"

There is blessed quiet, and he strides off into Sickbay with a proud roll to his shoulders. Commanding Officer to three ghosts. He tinkers around for a bit, feeling the familiar shapes and textures of his hypos and scanners and clean linens with relish. At least, even if he is on a ghost ship, the materials are still undeniably real.

He has barely started to devote energies to thinking of plan B, since Spock is nowhere to be found, when he hears the whisper start again. It's the first one _how do I know that _and he is just about to blow, give it a taste of state-of-the-art McCoy fury when he realizes that he can understand it. And then the words register, and he realizes that it is his name. And then the voice itself registers, and this third realization floors him. He walks carefully on wobbly legs to the nearest cot and sinks onto it, staring at where he has pegged Whisper One. He does not even think to reply until the whisper comes again, the tone dry, slightly mocking, seeking, and so familiar that his eyes start to burn in sheer delight.

_Doctor McCoy. Doctor McCoy?_

Delight at this voice? Here, at last, is solid proof that he is indeed crazy.

"I'm here, Spock."

* * *

Obviously I'm not too terribly sorry about the last cliffie, cause here's another one! Review!


	7. Counterattack

I must admit that I'm not as fond of this chapter...the characters don't seem to flow quite as well as earlier. But this is the result of a major idea/plot change, and I'm happy at least with how the story went. See, originally I was going to include a major Klingon attack or some other such space disaster that Scott would have to take care of while Spock and Kirk were busy with McCoy, but I quit partway through writing that. I wanted this story to revolve around more internal problems, like the relationship between the Three and of course, McCoy's troubled mind and memories. I felt that having a typical (though exciting) Trek space attack would detract from that, though now, of course, Scott is rather less important than I originally intended him to be. But that's life. And I'll now stop giving you the background on this chapter and let you read it and judge for yourself!

-EmRose

* * *

**Six: Counterattack**

If anyone had happened to walk into Mr. Spock's quarters late that night, they would have thought that they were interrupting some kind of bizarre Vulcan ritual. Then they would have realized that three of the men participating in the ritual were in fact humans, and that one of them was unconscious. The other three were gathered around the third man, who was lying on top of the thin black blanket on a low-slung bed. The Vulcan's eyes were fixed on this man's face, slanted eyebrows narrowed in intent concentration. He had one fine-boned hand resting on the prone figure's forehead as if he were testing the man's temperature. The other hand was delicately cupping the face of the larger standing man, the first fingers placed precisely on the forehead and cheeks on the bronzed skin. This man's eyes were closed gently, hands relaxed at his sides, shoulders loose; he could have been asleep. This in sharp contrast with the final member of the party, who was rigidly standing on the outside of this threesome, obviously part but not part of the "ritual". His broad shoulders strained with tension against the shoulders of his red uniform, and his fair face was stark white against the black of his hair and eyes, which were dancing in impatient frustration. He was a silent watcher, however, and though he shifted his weight back and forth from foot to foot, he made not a sound.

No, on first sight the casual observer would have understood nothing. But if he had happened to inquire of the red-clad participant, he would have been told in the thickest, most stress-induced Scottish brogue he had ever heard, "Aye, don't ye know, laddie? They're fightin' for the doctor's life. And if Mister Spock cain't bring him out o' it, thair isn't one that can!"

"But surely," the ignorant observer would protest, "that is no way to go about saving a man's life!"

"Aye, man, you'd be raight…if ye weren't talkin' aboot Mr. Spock. This is nae ordinary illness, boy. It's nowt his body tha's in danger, it's his mind. We could keep his body alive, right enough, but its nowt much use without a healthy brain attached. Now hush, lad, don't be disturbin' the man whilst he's workin'!"

Sufficiently chastened, the now enlightened observer may choose to stay and watch what he could now pretend to understand, but would quickly be discouraged if action was what he was looking for. As the minutes wear on, he might lose interest in watching the absolutely still figures of Mr. Spock and the gold-shirted figure, the lack of animation in the body on the bed, and even the eventual stilling of the Scot. After a time, he would conclude that there was no point in lingering and leave the three men to their seemingly hopeless task.

But the Scotsman would stay though he seemed of little use, vigilant as he had been from the beginning, eyes resting in turn on each of his companions, finally sitting reluctantly as the immeasurable minutes passed, though his two conscious (in a manner of speaking) companions remained standing. Because he knew something that the innocent observer would not…that underneath the quiet, nonexistent external action, there were two active minds chasing the lost soul of Leonard McCoy around his own scattered, broken consciousness.

And the result of _that _chase was worth waiting for.

* * *

_Bones, if you aren't the most stubborn, pig-headed man I've ever known…_

"Jim!"

_We've only been chasing you around the entire ship for hours now. Hours, isn't it, Spock?_

_I would estimate six hours, forty-nine minutes, Captain. But is now really the time…_

_ Bones, that's six hours, forty-eight minutes too long. You have no idea how uncomfortable this whole business is. _

He snorts at this, incredulous. "Pardon me, Captain. Accept my apologies for the delay. And whaddoyou _mean_, I have no idea how uncomfortable this is? You aren't the one's been wandering about this gods-forsaken ship wondering how you're going to get out of your own mind, wondering where in my bloody…"

_Language, doc. And all right, I concede your point. But we're here to wake you up; we've been trying for the past six hours…how many minutes, Spock?_

_ Fifty-one, Captain. But now is hardly the time…_

_ Yes, yes, Spock. Bones, you doing all right?_

"Peachy. Ready to go."

A soft chuckle. _I bet you are. Shall we? I have no idea what I'm doing, I'm just along for the ride. Scotty's back with our bodies…now there's a thought…but the ship's ok, and you're healthy except that you won't wake up, of course. I think…I think it should be relatively easy, but then, I'm not the expert. Spock seemed to think that if we could get you to recognize us then we'd be able to take you back with us out of the meld. Which, by the way, you're in. There was no other way, and I thought that you wouldn't mind too much if it meant life or death. You don't, do you?_

Bemused, he scratches the side of his face, trying to make sense of Kirk's babble. He always tends to talk when he's excited, and sometimes there's no shutting him up. "Well, I suppose so, if it works…"

_I am aware of…_

_Well, there's no reason it shouldn't. At least, not to my knowledge. _

"Your knowledge, huh? Well, that's reassuring."

_What's that supposed to mean?_

"It's nothing personal."

_Hmmm. Spock? You've been awfully quiet…something wrong? _

Spock's voice is faintly perturbed as he answers and McCoy stifles a threatening snicker. He's tempted to cut in just to add to the lets-interrupt-Spock tally begun by Kirk, but decides he's more interested in getting out of his current predicament.

_Nothing at all, Captain. If I might be permitted to speak?_ Kirk is contrite, and Spock continues. _Having never attempted such a feat before, this will be a "trial and error" experiment on my part. However, in theory, there is a relatively small chance that I will not be able to connect to your consciousness and bring it back with us as I release us from your mind. It may be uncomfortable, but I would ask that you relax as much as is possible, doctor, as to ease the way. _

He rather thinks that Spock is asking a lot, but he does not wish to argue, not when the alternative will get him home (he hopes) much more quickly.

"All right, Spock."

_Very well. _

Spock says no more, and McCoy shifts uncomfortably, waiting. He is struck with a sudden thought, so abrupt that he might be tempted to call it premonition, and his scalp prickles. He ignores it, willing himself not to turn around, but the image of that other Spock is so vivid in his mind that he turns reluctantly and faces the biobed upon which that Spock has always lain.

He is there. He is sitting ramrod straight with absolute calm, watching the doctor through expressionless eyes, both hands folded on his knees, looking as if he has been there from the dawn of time. Despite himself, McCoy begins to shake, and he whispers, "Now would be a good time, Spock."

_Doctor McCoy? Doctor, can you hear me?_

"I hear you, Spock. I hear you! Anytime, old boy."

_Doctor, there is another presence in your mind. I feel an interference…_

"Glory be, Spock, he's sitting right in front of me. Can't you move any faster?"

_Am I correct in saying that you are referring to my mirror counterpart?_

He laughs out loud at this, eyes still fixed on those brown orbs two beds away, watching for any movement, heart thumping hard and loud. "You're correct, Mr. Spock."

_Doctor, I am at a loss to explain his presence, but I assure you that he cannot harm you. He is nothing more than a memory. Your mind is still locked tightly within itself—Mr. Scott has insisted on watching over our bodies as I attempt to unlock…_

"Spock, I'm going to talk to him."

Silence greets him at these words, and he pictures the eyebrow rocketing skyward. Then Kirk speaks, and he sounds a little hoarse but timidly approving. No doubt the silence was a silent communication between the Captain and his First, with the former tentative but embracing the risk, the latter seeing no way to disprove it logically and so acquiescing once again to the illogic of human emotion.

_Be careful, Bones. We don't know what he's capable of. _

"Acknowledged. Spock, any advice before I pay your evil twin a visit?"

_None except to echo the Captain's sentiment. Be wary. If he should meld with you as in your dreams, I do not know what will happen…trapped in your consciousness as you are, I doubt that you will wake as you have in the past. You will be caught in his meld until he chooses to release you, or until I can find a way to safely negate his influence. _

"I'll be careful." His heart is pounding again, but it is more of a nervous pounding than a terrified one, and so he is able to harness the nervous energy and use it to force his own legs into motion. He approaches the Other Spock and stops a few feet away, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

"Hi," he says. Kirk snorts but says nothing. The Other Spock says nothing. He purses his lips and tries to think. He hasn't thought about _what_ he wants to say to this nightmare; he only knows that he doesn't want to sit around waiting for Spock to work his Vulcan magic while this Spock sits around watching him wait. "I, uh, my name is Leonard McCoy. This is my, uh, mind you're in." Wince.

_Smooth, Doc._

"Shuttup, Jim. Look, Mr. Spock, I don't know what you're playing at, leaving your presence sneaking around in my head, but I want you gone." The Other Spock's silence is giving him courage, and he straightens consciously and clenches a fist. "I have enough to deal with without having to relive your Vulcan hoodoo mind-meld in my head every night, and I'm sick and tired of it. This is _my_ head and _my _life and I don't want you as a part of it. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Other Spock stands up so swiftly that McCoy's breath hitches in his chest, but he is in no mood to be cowed, and he stands his ground.

_"Why did the Captain let me live?"_

"What?" This is such a far cry from what he is expecting that he lets his mouth hang open for a second or two, blinking nonplussed. "What does that have to do with anything? Weren't you listening?"

_"Why did he let me live?"_

The Spock starts to advance, and one arm lifts slowly. McCoy takes a step backwards now, both hands now raised and ready to defend himself. The creeping cold fear is crawling up his spine, but his confusion helps to keep it at bay.

"He wasn't the one that let you live…I did. I'm the one who insisted on keeping you alive, Spock. Jim Kirk was all for letting you die."

_Watch it, Bones._ The words aren't for the slang against Kirk, but rather warning for the advancing Spock, something for which McCoy needs no warning. The Spock's eyes are still expressionless, one arm still outstretched, fingers parted as if searching for hold on McCoy's face. Unfortunately, purchase is something that McCoy is not willing to give.

"Well, don't you have anything to say to that? _Spock, anytime!_"

_I am attempting…I have a theory, Doctor, if you will hold him off for another sixty seconds I believe that this will work…_Spock's voice sounds strained and distant with effort, but McCoy is in no mood for patience, either.

"I don't know if I've got another sixty seconds, Spock!"

_At any moment now…_

But then the back of McCoy's legs hit a biobed and he catches himself, but before he can twist to make his escape the Spock's hand catches his wrist in an iron grasp and he is flung back to the old terror, the old nausea.

Color, light, sound, screaming, screaming…

_Bones! Bones, hold on, fight him off, don't let him touch you! Hold on, you're almost there, you're almost out, just hang on…_

"Jim," he gasps, because through his fear he has seen an emptiness in the Other Spock's eyes that makes him wonder, and a thoroughly crazy idea grips him. "Jim, I'm going to let him."

_What? No!_

"I'm gonna fight him. I'm gonna give it every bit of fight I got left. I'm going to break him, Jim! I'm going to _break this!_"

He deliberately locks eyes with the Spock, giving Kirk no time to argue, giving Spock no time to input, and then the fingers make contact and he falls into the blackness. This time, as the consciousness starts to invade his mind, reaching hungrily for his memories, he barrels against it, shoving it back, away from images of Jim, Spock, Joanna. He fights back with everything he has, lashing out the tendrils of being that are recoiling in complete very un-Vulcan-like shock.

Because he has realized that this is nothing more than a memory. He has been treating this Spock like a living, breathing being. He is nothing of the kind—he understands that he is more than a dream but no more than a memory, a faint copy of the physical being that invaded his mind all those days ago. And so he has thrown himself at this copy, this fake, in the wild hopes that if he fights back that this Spock will have no idea how to react. For all intents and purposes, he is hoping to change the past.

_Bones! Bones!_

He spares no thought to Kirk's frantic voice in his ear, ignores everything but the marvelous feeling that is the mind of the Spock shaking, confusion complete. He shoves out again, with all the willpower he possesses, and the Spock retreats a little further; one of the fingers pressed to his face twitches and lifts almost imperceptibly, but that break in concentration is enough.

McCoy screams. He is exhausted, still afraid, still unsure, but Kirk's repeated encouragement in his ear, the knowledge that Spock is almost ready to pull him back to the world of the living, and the suspicion that if he does not crush this demon now that it will never be entirely gone gives him access to that final reserve of energy. He explodes.

Pure human emotion. Illogical? Yes. Characteristic Leonard McCoy? Most definitely. Fury, hatred, fear, pain, terror, frustration, irritation, loss, grief, guilt, greed…negative. Temper with? Love, passion, exultation, happiness, peace, calm, laughter.

And like any good Vulcan, Other Spock shies from it, wavers, and then something snaps. It is a punch to the gut, and he gasps. _What have I done?_

But now the fingers crumble from around his face, withering, wilting away from the power in this last-ditch attempt, and the presence is cringing, fleeing from his mind. It flits from every corner of his broken, damaged memories and emotions, leaving them free and whole. The darkness and fear melt away from the corners of his consciousness; the sun breaking the storm. His eyes snap back into focus and he shuts them immediately. His legs give out and he crumples, knees striking the floor, pitching onto his side. He is shaking uncontrollably, but it is with wonder, not fear; he is crying, but with the sudden freedom, not pain.

So he lays there, listening distantly to Kirk scream at him, desperately demanding to know what's going on, because Spock says the interference is gone and _get ready to wake up in the next six seconds_. He is tempted to catch a last glance at this Sickbay that he has now both loved and loathed, but he decides against it, choosing instead to press his face against the floor and just breathe.

And he knows that if he were to open his eyes, there would be no one there.

* * *

This is is, folks...there will be one more chapter now to wrap it all up, hopefully in a satisfactory way to all of you who have stuck with this. Thank you all SO very much for your faithful reviews. They kept me going! Blessings!


	8. Catharsis

Here it is, the final chapter. I'm not going to say much, cause I'd rather you read it, but I just want to thank you all again for the lovely response I've received for this story. I never thought it would be this long or turn out like this, and I didn't dream of this much positive reaction! So thank you all--you literally kept it going with your reviews. I enjoyed the ride!

-EmRose

* * *

**Seven: Catharsis **

Kirk opened his eyes just in time to make a wild, instinctive grab for thin shoulders as his First Officer collapsed sideways. He hardly heard Scott's exclaimed oath as he staggered under the sudden deadweight, but the strong hands that helped him to lower Spock gently to a sitting position against the cot were not gone unappreciated. He himself felt awkward and dizzy, and as he squatted next to his semi-conscious First he had to grasp the mattress to keep from falling over altogether. Scott's hand rested on his shoulder, and he glanced up into his Chief Engineer's worried face and tried to look reassuring.

"'M fine, Scotty," he murmured. "Just a little dizzy, that's all."

"Captain! What's been happening? You and Mr. Spock have been that way for over seven hours now…it worried me, sir."

"We were fine," Kirk said shortly, feeling steadier by the second but in no mood to answer his inquisitive subordinate until he was sure of Spock's well being. "Spock? Spock, are you all right?"

Spock's eyes flickered open, and his chest rose in a deep, sighing breath as he focused on Kirk's face. "I am…well, Captain," he said quietly. "I apologize for my lapse. To stay so long in another's mind is taxing at best. Maintaining a secure connection with one as turbulent and guarded as the good Doctor's is admittedly difficult."

"Dangerous?"

Spock's eyebrow quirked in a Vulcan semblance of an embarrassed smile. "It is no _longer_ a danger, Captain."

Kirk frowned reprovingly. "But it was? Spock, you shouldn't have risked yourself…"

"Would you have had me withdraw before we were certain of the Doctor's safety?" Kirk didn't reply—Spock already knew the answer to that one. But mention of McCoy brought him to his feet.

"Bones."

Spock rose unsteadily to his feet beside him, gently shrugging away from Scott's steadying hand. Kirk sat down on the cot next to his CMO and laid a hand on the forehead, brushing a few stray locks of dark hair gently back into place. The Engineer joined them at the bedside, and for a second none of them moved. Then Kirk took a quick breath and grasped the silky blue shoulder.

"Doc?" He suppressed a glimmer of anxiety and shook the shoulder more roughly than he had intended. "Bones!"

"Patience, Captain," Spock rumbled from over his shoulder. "It may take a few moments for him to return to full consciousness."

"But he _will_ return…?"

"He will."

Spock's calm assurance soothed his anxiety but did nothing to dispel his impatience. Spock seemed to sense this, because he moved a fraction closer to his Captain, just enough that their boots made soft contact. Kirk looked up, appreciating the physical connection, but just as their eyes met in mutual understanding, Scott hissed, "Captain!"

He turned sharply back as McCoy's eyelids fluttered again. His pale skin was regaining some of its warmth, and Kirk brought a hand to McCoy's cheek, patting it gently.

"Bones?"

McCoy groaned and stirred; one hand twitched at his side and rose a few inches from the coverlet. Kirk grabbed at it and squeezed; again, harder than he'd intended with impatience and anticipation, with the result that McCoy groaned louder and tugged weakly out of his grasp. His eyes cracked open and fixed immediately on Kirk's face in a shadow imitation of his icy glare.

"Ow."

Kirk laughed out loud. "Good to have you back, Doc."

McCoy's eyes closed and he moved his head back and forth shallowly on the pillow. "Don't know that _good_ does it justice." And then, "I've got one heck of a headache."

"A result of the extended period of time that the Captain and I spent in your subconscious, Doctor."

Scott harrumphed behind Spock. "_Extended_ is a bloody understatement," he grumbled. McCoy heard and chuckled limply.

"Agreed, Scotty."

"I apologize for the intrusion, Doctor McCoy," Spock said. McCoy's eyes opened abruptly and he pinned Spock with a blazing stare that seemed to discomfit even the normally stolid Vulcan. "It was my intention only to bring you out of your comatose state, not to cause unnecessary discomfort. Please understand that it was the only logical course of action that could have possibly drawn you from the walls of protection your mind had constructed."

McCoy held the gaze, unspeaking, for a long uncomfortable moment in which Kirk and Scott wished desperately that they were either somewhere several light years away or that McCoy would _say_ something. Since the former was hardly a possible solution, Kirk decided to nudge McCoy into the second. But just as he had managed to worm his near hand into a position ready to give the doctor a sharp pinch to the ribs, McCoy broke the silence with a _hmmmph._

"Jim, help me up."

Kirk hastily moved his hand back up to the Doctor's shoulders and guided him up into a sitting position. The color drained from McCoy's face and he raised a hand to his temple, swallowing thickly. But even as he massaged his temple gently, grimacing, he looked grimly up at Spock again with a no-nonsense, no-arguments-allowed death stare.

"I don't want you to apologize, Mr. Spock," he said. "I want you to accept my thanks, forget about the whole business, and most of all, I want to forget about your durned _logic_ and recognize that you went in after me because you _wanted _to, not because logic dictated it."

Spock rocked a little on his heels, eyebrow shooting skyward. When he spoke, his voice was dry and his eyes sparkling affectionately. "Is that all?"

McCoy snorted. "That's all, Spock."

"Then I accept your gratitude, Doctor. Your other two requests, however, are hardly plausible as well as being highly illogical."

McCoy sputtered, and Kirk was wishing more and more that he were out of the line of fire rather than sitting between what looked like it was turning into an explosive debate.

"To blazes with logic!" He coughed, rubbed his head roughly with the heels of his hands, nearly reeling with frustration, but before Kirk could step in to intervene, Spock touched him swiftly on the shoulder with the obvious request that he move. He stood hastily and Spock took his place on the bed. The transition was made with such startling grace that McCoy blinked in surprise and Scott turned his surprised laugh into a hacking cough at Kirk's glare.

"Doctor McCoy," Spock said hoarsely, "I ask that you do not expect me to 'forget about the whole business'. I am in no position to forget your distress, nor the role that I have played in both causing and alleviating that distress. I recognize that I am not responsible for the initial violation upon your mind, but I do realize and accept complete responsibility for my miscalculations that led to your mind essentially "shutting down". I will not dwell on my mistakes, but nor will I forget them. Can you accept this?"

McCoy's eyes had softened immeasurably, and his lips curved warmly. "I can accept that, Mr. Spock."

"And as for your third request, Doctor…" Spock hesitated uncharacteristically, glanced up at Kirk, and then back to the waiting McCoy. "I would echo your earlier statement.

"To blazes with logic."

* * *

Montgomery Scott walked down the wide, gently lit corridors of ship's night, whistling softly to himself as he made his way to say goodnight to his beloved engines. His day had started with five-star, depressed to one of the worse he could remember ever having (and that was saying a lot, considering what his rash young Captain had put him through since day one of their five-year-mission), and then climbed back up to a five-star as he had watched his not-so-rash, emotionless First Officer show some emotion for the first time in his memory. The Doctor's stupefied reaction to Spock's outright confession of the friendship between them had been amusing; he had never seen the gaping-fish look on McCoy's face before, nor seen his Captain go _that _red in the face from trying to suppress what Scotty hoped was tears of laughter as opposed to tears of sentimentalism.

He had also never seen the Captain hug anyone before, and though he felt like an intruder, he wouldn't have missed the sight for the world. The Captain had held the Doctor a long while in silence while Spock looked resolutely over their heads, face softened in a way that Scott had never seen. One of the two men had given a muffled sob, but when they broke apart both faces were dry. McCoy had then held out his hand to Spock, eyes begging the Vulcan officer to take it.

Spock had looked for a brief moment like he might refuse, but then he had lifted his own arm slowly and grasped the doctor's proffered hand in a strange grip that Scott didn't recognize but was sure was an incredibly personal Vulcan custom. McCoy had been startled, but tried awkwardly to copy the grip before Spock deigned to help him. Once he had arranged McCoy's fingers into a rough copy of his own hand, he had held it only briefly before releasing McCoy's hand and clasping both behind his back.

He'd been forced to bring them hastily back again as McCoy had promptly collapsed. Scott had jumped forward to help him set the irritable doctor back on the cot, but Kirk had, of course, gotten there first. Scott had settled back almost at the door again, watching Spock and Kirk—there was no other word for it—_fuss_ over McCoy until the doctor had snapped out a few choice words that Scott hadn't ever heard outside the taverns he liked to frequent on those rare occasions that Kirk could force him to take a shore leave.

Overall, it had been a long evening of firsts.

Helping his Captain and Mr. Spock wrestle a protesting Dr. McCoy down to his own Sickbay was not one of those firsts that he had wanted to experience, and so he had excused himself after a hasty handshake with the glowering Doctor and a quick salute to his COs. He had left with several irreverent suggestions of where Jim Kirk could stick _that_ hypospray ringing in his ears, and hastened his dignified walk to an altogether undignified trot as the doors to Mr. Spock's quarters hissed open again before he could disappear around the next corner. He had paused to listen as the bickering faded with the footsteps in the other direction, and then set off smartly for Engineering with a spring in his steps.

Mr. Spock and the Captain were more than welcome to grapple with the one man everyone on board knew was the worst patient Sickbay had ever held; Scott, however, wanted no part. He had a suspicion that Leonard McCoy would be even better than James Kirk at escaping Sickbay, but that Mr. Spock would be even more adamant about keeping _him _there than he was the Captain. Watching _that_ battle could possibly even be incentive enough to draw him away willingly from his engines for the second time in two days.

On the other hand, maybe it was safer down in Engineering. Now that McCoy was back to his old self, he and Mr. Spock together was once again a combination to be avoided if one enjoyed peace and quiet, which Scott did. Avoiding that combination meant avoiding Sickbay, seeing as Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk would be down there as often as they were on the Bridge until they allowed McCoy to resume his usual duties.

If Scott knew the doctor, it wouldn't be long before the two of them would be _begging_ McCoy to resume said duties.

Scott reached Engineering and climbed quickly and easily down the short ladder to the main control center, where he brushed gentle fingers across the consoles, listening to the gentle humming of the impulse engines. He adjusted a lever there, a dial there, tapped in a quick sequence there, and nodded goodnight to Beta shift. He didn't miss the fond, exasperated looks they shot him as he climbed the ladder again to return to his quarters; he knew that his crew though him more than slightly eccentric.

And proud to be so.

* * *

_Sickbay hums quietly with occasional pattering footsteps, whispered murmurs, and clicks and whirrs of the few panels operating above overnight patients. A Beta shift nurse bends over one man who is whispering for water and supports his head as he drinks carefully. She then moves to the next patient who is snoring gently and makes a mental note to release him first thing in the morning. _

_ Another nurse appears from the next room and gestures at her to come see. She passes the only other patient in this ward with a quick glance at the monitor to make sure vitals are still good. They stand in the doorway together, looking across the ward at the only monitor that is showing readings. _

_ There are three beds under it, pushed together so that they are nearly touching, and three bodies sprawled under thin blue sheets, still in sleep. One on the end is obviously the tousled head of Captain Kirk, a familiar sight in Sickbay. One leg is flung out to one side—his head rests on one arm, while the other lies on his chest, twitching in sleep. _

_ The other side holds the ramrod straight body and dark, neat head of Mr. Spock, who is as quiet in sleep as the Captain is sprawled. The sheets are folded neatly down across his chest, and even in the dim light they can see that he is resting in uniform, with obvious intentions of returning immediately to the Bridge upon waking. _

_ The center form is curled in on itself, as still as Mr. Spock but with snoring to rival Kirk's. The two nurses cannot see any more but a lump under the sheets what with the closeness of his two companions, but they are not worried. They are content to leave the three of them there until they wake; they know that Doctor McCoy is in the best of hands exactly as he is._

_ As they watch, Mr. Spock stirs and then props himself up on an elbow and looks down at the sleeping doctor. The nurses retreat farther into the shadows, unwilling to intrude but also unwilling to grant privacy. Spock seems to verify that all is well, casts a wry glance at Kirk—even from here the nurses can see the eyebrow raise. He then lifts his near hand and lowers it gently to the doctor's head, where it rests lightly for a few seconds. His lips move, but the nurses cannot hear what he is saying. They look at each other guiltily and retreat to the other ward, reluctantly offering the solitude that the situation now dictates. _

_ McCoy murmurs softly in his sleep, and Spock removes the hand but continues to watch the doctor for some time. It is only when Kirk snores loudly enough that he wakes himself up that Spock lays back down to avoid notice. Kirk opens his eyes blearily and rolls over, pushing himself up heavily to glance over at his two companions, both of whom are apparently asleep. He grins sleepily and then settles himself down again, where he is unconscious again within thirty seconds. _

_ Sickbay is quiet. _

_

* * *

_

Blessings to you all!


End file.
